Plug-Ugly Pugs

Life magazine, 12-31-45
Life magazine, 12-31-45

I had no idea folks used the term “plug-ugly” back in days of yore. I would have loved to hear my grandparents tell me someone’s hair was plug-ugly. But there’s a good chance they’d heard it:


The Plug Uglies were a street gang operating out of Baltimore, Maryland in the 1850s…Gangs called the Rip Raps, the Know Nothings and the Plug Uglies fought pitched battles in the streets and these events were widely reported at the time…’Plug-ugly’ is an expression mostly found in the USA. In other parts of the English-speaking world you are just as likely to hear ‘pug-ugly’, which has the same meaning.


Not only are pugs hard on the eyes, they reign as the Chevy Nova of the canine world.

No matter how you slice it, pugs are defective. And plug-ugly.


Well, maybe not this one.

We Have Lift Off

It is an uncontested fact that the men of Cobra Kai, while not victorious against Danielson, did in fact possess enough feathered hair to construct another Feather Bed for John Denver’s grandma, which we all recall was “nine feet high and six feet wide,  soft as a downy chick, and made from the feathers of forty ‘leven geese…” Or in this case, three Cobra Kai.

It is also a universal truth that Farrah Fawcett wore the crown of queen bee for female feathered hair. However, I have just discovered evidence of a firm runner-up to the title.


This unnamed vixen was a member of Akers’ Angels at the University of Texas, whose job it was to show prospective Longhorn football players around campus. No, that doesn’t sound like an escort at all. She evidently took the title of Angel seriously, by copying the hairstyle of one of Charlie’s Angels. But while Farrah’s locks twirled and swirled like a spiral staircase, this lady’s feathers formed an impenetrable brick wall, eight inches high, so that neither fiery darts nor a linebacker who looks as confused as Moose in Archie Comics could get through it.

Yes, her hair is powerful. But here’s a word of advice: stay out of the humidity before it goes all Kristy McNichol on you. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

What Would We Do, Baby, Without Us?

So I’m watching–yes–another episode of the FINAL (gasp!) season of What Not To Wear, while wearing a crazy cute floral skirt and blouse myself, feeling confident and yet saddened by the former Jennifer Keaton of Family Ties fame, played by Miss Tina Yothers.  First off, I can easily get past her substantial weight gain; we all get old and puffy (even Renee Zellweger at times).  But I cannot get past her black Goth hair.  Right now, she is telling Ted, the stylist, “Once you go black…”  But, in this case, that is untrue.  I had black hair when I was 17 years old, but I’m not 17 anymore.  You CAN go back.  I realize this is a free country, and I realize this is also a rerun, so I should have gotten over it by now, but I simply cannot.  There is freedom, and then there is sanity. Freedom of fashion choice does not exclude one from the NEED to dress age-appropriately.  Or wear age-appropriate hair.  You might look pretty cute in pigtails or a Crissy Snow side-pony, but you wouldn’t go in public like that over the age of 12.

There are only four reasons to have black hair if you are a porcelain-skinned white girl like Miss Tina:

1) You were born with it.

2) You are Katy Perry (herself a natural blonde who will probably grow it back out once she matures).

3) You are Veronica from Archie comics. 

4) You are Snow White.

Now back to Tina.  For one thing, she says she hasn’t tried clothes on in a dressing room in “like five or six years.”  WTH?  Do you know many how styles have come and gone in six years?  You think six years isn’t much?  Think about your cell phone six years ago.  Think about your laptop and your old beige monitor.  Having kids is not an excuse for giving up.  Don’t be that woman in pajamas at Wal-Mart.  You are better than that.  It’s not about being trendy or even about vanity; it’s about being the best version of yourself.


Tina, like another guest named Teresa (“T”) whom they tackled on Season 8, has a fear of wearing dresses.  I DO NOT GET THIS!!  Admittedly, T had some serious issues she needed to work through, regarding mandatory Catholic school uniforms or something like that, so now T is rebelling (too old to rebel) against society and now nobody tells T to put a dress on.  In fact, T often gets mistaken for a male.  She wears men’s clothing, wifebeaters, and Crocs.   T I wonder if she goes by “T” because the name “Teresa” is not masculine enough?  All I know is T has a winning smile and lots of potential.  Rejoice in what you are: a woman.  And cute, too boot!  You don’t have to prance around like Shania Twain, declaring, “Man, I feel like a woman!”  But sweet Mary and Joseph,  I think feminists go so far trying to be the Anti-Barbie that they might as well grow their armpit hair out and wear a cup.  You can sit in the middle of the see saw, sweetie.  You don’t have to soar to the end of the spectrum.  T even admitted at the end of the show, “This process has shown me you can be powerful and still be soft.”  What what?

And, yes, I understand that Jane Lynch and Ellen Degeneres are never going to be out buying A-line skirts and flouncy dresses, but why is this a hurdle for straight women?  If you enjoy your femininity, why do you abhor dresses?  Do you feel objectified or sexualized?  Dresses are actually pretty freeing, and your thighs stay well-ventilated.  Shallow or not, most women want to feel attractive.  They want to have a good hair day more than they would EVER want world peace, and they want their lashes to look full and not to have raccoon circles under their eyes.  You can talk a good game upside down about how you want equal pay for equal work, but you know a good support bra and panties that don’t ride up rank right up there, too. Keep this mantra in mind: Fernando-resized-600 It’s nearing the end of the show, and Tina is wearing a coral dress and a black blazer.  She just said, “I feel like a woman…It’s beautiful, and I love it!”  Yes!  Victory!  One week under the tutelage of Clint and Stacey, and her broken brain got unbroken.  They fixed it, reprogrammed it to the default setting, which is XX chromosomes=embrace your womanhood.  Look, it’s 2013.  We’re not cattle rustlers in the Old West, forced to wear long, hot skirts in the heat and dust.  You shouldn’t have to ride sidesaddle in a skirt.  I get that.  You should have the right to throw some trousers and chaps on.

But guess what?  We can vote now, so go ahead and wear your clamdiggers and your slimming jeans and even your yoga pants with the holes in the crotch.  But don’t walk into a clothing store, having already written off half the inventory.  Rock a dress or skirt every now and again.  There is a balance between Amish and skank.  Find it.  And BTW, it’s soooo much quicker to pee if you’re in a dress.  Just lift and go.

Now Tina is looking in the mirror, giddy, saying, “I can’t believe I’m wearing a scarf.”  There you go–she not only conquered the dress obstacle, but cruised right on into accessorizing.  And that black hair might just be growing on me…  Either way, It’s a new and improved Tina.  You go, girl. tina-yothers_5636130

Ferrah: The Arabic Word For Joy

In a couple of days, bloggers everywhere will be posting about the fourth anniversary of Michael Jackson’s passing.  Many less will mention Farrah Fawcett, who passed on the same day.  Farrah, who changed the spelling of her first name from Ferrah, was a hair and fashion icon to girls of the 1970s, despite the fact that she only spent one season on Charlie’s Angels.  Although her legacy does not impact the world in the way that Jackson’s does, I wanted to give her a shout out.

We can see these images in our minds: Farrah with the healthy glow, Farrah on the skateboard, Farrah in the infamous Mexican blanket swimsuit poster, too cliche for me to post. Long before The Burning Bed, the ups and downs with long-time lover Ryan O’ Neal, and the crazy stint on Letterman–the same year she turned 50 and posed in Playboy–she was a stunner.  And presumably sane.

Here is mid-1970s Farrah with Wella Balsam hair, voluminous and sexy enough to rock right now in 2013.

Early 1970s Farrah flashes her Ultra Brite smile.

Even before the feathered locks, 1960s Farrah was a beauty, .

Like so many others, cancer claimed you.  So rest in peace, Farrah.  The world has not forgotten you.  

For a glimpse of her doing her best Marilyn Monroe voice, see her “cream” Joe Namath in his Noxzema commercial:

Manly Mane O’ Glory

Three months into blogging, clearly there is plenty that I don’t get.  My inability to grasp things may allow endless blogging fodder for years to come.  Here’s one such item: The site has existed since I was in my TWENTIES.  It was a hoot back then, if for nothing more than the sheer volume of men who actually did resemble Kenny Rogers.  Please tell me how this site can remain up for soooo long, and yet there is no site yet devoted to Barry Gibb’s glorious lionesque mane?

If you don’t know who Barry Gibb is, I forgive you.  I do resent, however, having to explain that he was the eldest of the three Brothers Gibb, which consisted of his twin brothers, Robin & Maurice, now both deceased.  They peaked with the disco soundtrack of Saturday Night Fever, gracing the cover in tight white suits.  Say what you will about disco (R.I.P.), but they sold a crapload of records, over 220 million. That’s more books than any of us can hope to publish.  Combined.  And they wrote all their own songs, as well as hits by other artists, including “Grease” and “Islands In The Stream.”  No kidding.

But it’s not their tight three part harmonies that deserve a website; it’s the tresses of the elder brother.  Barry’s hair was glorious from the get-go.  Even in the late 60s, he was rocking Elvis sideburns with style (and a white suit).

Like Samson and his strength, so, too, was Barry’s sexiness connected to his lovely locks.   Here he is all Farrah Fawcett, minus the Mexican blanket.

Is it any wonder children purchased these lunchboxes in droves?

Note the halo effect, as though he were the archangel Barry.  Perhaps that’s just the heat generated from his Saturday Night Fever.

And just when you thought he couldn’t feather it anymore–BAM!–superultrafeathered. In combination with the brooding bedtime eyes, gold chain, and chest hair, you can almost imagine the puddles of testosterone seeping out of his pores.

And this?  This is how Grizzly Adams saw himself in dreams.

Here we see the Bee Gees with younger brother, Andy, a solo artist in his own right, also deceased.  Even with Andy’s good looks, his hair was still no match for the wild and woolly Barry Gibb.  You can see it in Barry’s stance; he knows he is the alpha Gibb.

You know, this pic has got me wondering–if men receive their hair pattern gene from their maternal grandfather, how could one brother be bald and one brother be blessed with a thickness and volume of crown otherwise unknown to man?  Don’t they all have the same maternal grandfather?  I am vexed.

Time has thinned his mane and turned it silver, but a trace of its glory exists.  Not enough for me to add it to this fine collection of pictures, but you get the point.  You had a good run, Barry.  Longer than most of us could ever dream of.  And that’s no Jive Talkin’.

Hebrew Hair

When I say “Jewfro,” you probably think of Seth Rogen, or his Judd Apatow film pal, Jonah Hill.   And while some may say that the style consists of a mop of curls, I do not agree.  On humid days when I complain of having an “afro,” it does not imply that I have perfectly smooth ringlets on my head.  Au contraire, it means my hair is frizzed to high heaven, and neither John Frieda nor any other lying, scheming frizz-free, smoothing  serum, crap-peddling con artist can fix it.  Seth Rogen’s hair is not frizzy.  It is an afro SHAPE made of cascading curls.


In the scheme of things, “jewfro” is a fairly recent term.  It is not, however, a recent phenomenon.  In fact, I contend that jewfros of the past were far superior to their modern-day counterparts, in part, because of their absolute frizziness.  Think: Art Garfunkel.  Hello, darkness, my old friend…

But his was not the first jewfro to which I was introduced.  That honor goes to Juan Luis Pedro Felipo de Huevos Epstein on Welcome Back, Kotter.  That’s him in the upper right.  He was a Puerto Rican Jew with an era-appropriate coif.

I suppose technically I was introduced to Mr. Kotter’s jewfro at precisely the same time, but he was a teacher, and I identified with the students, even if they were male.  Sadly, the actor who played Epstein, Robert Hegyes, passed away just over a year ago.  If you ever want to hear a great theme song, this show had one.  Welcome back, welcome back, welcome ba-a-ack.

I would be remiss not to mention the now-deceased “happy trees” PBS icon, Bob Ross.  According to, Ross was not actually of Jewish descent, which means that what he sported was actually a “jewfaux.”  But let’s not get legalistic.

Doesn’t he just make you want to smile? P.S. it was a perm.

This next little jewfro works well on Shia LaBeouf, who was Jewish enough to have a full-on Bar Mitzvah, yet he also was baptized.  So there you go.  No jewfaux here.

Here’s another shot of Shia with something that I can’t quite label.  It’s not a ‘fro, but it is powerful.  You can’t tame that thing.  Let’s call it Black Mamba hair.

Seinfeld creator Larry David’s jewfro was something to behold.  You can see that the receding had already begun its weary trek to the back of his dome.  And he looks none too thrilled about it.

That really looks strange, doesn’t it?  The Marx Brothers; the next generation.

It’s like Ashley Judd’s hairline, with all those little baby hairs.  An odd sort of fringe.  Not that I would mind trading faces with her for a few years…

I’m also reminded of Selma Blair and her curious hairline.  Keep the bangs, girl.  Keep the bangs.

Now Lenny Kravitz has Russian Jewish ancestors, but I wouldn’t call his look a jewfro.  I would just call it a nice, tight hairdo. On a really fit man with a bandana and shades who is cooking shirtless.
What were we talking about again?   

Gee Your Hair Smells Terrific But For The Love Of All That Is Holy, Stop Touching It

I watch a lot of late night television.  A lot.  At the time it actually comes on.  Late.  I don’t record it or DVR it or whatever else people do these days.  I simply know when shows come on, and then I sit in front of the television at that time and watch them.  If I were too busy to do that, I would have to reassess my life.  Many times, when Leno or Kimmel are on commercial, we turn the channel to Letterman, and my husband asks for the umpteenth time why he is still on the air.  My hub has no memory of Dave’s heydey decades ago; all he sees is the crochety beige shell of a host who lost his humor and his sass well before the Towers fell.  He’s like that cantankerous old ventriloquist dummy, Walter.  Sometimes we think, “This will be the night that the Top Ten is actually funny.”  But it never is.  Never.  I tell him I’m pretty sure they did a really funny list in 1993, but then I remember even Conan was funnier than Dave that year.  Crap, that was twenty years ago.  TWENTY.  One score.  Yeesh.

Nonetheless, Dave, Jay, Craig, Conan, and the two Jimmies have one thing in common: guests.  They share the same guests.  We see the same actors in different suits, night after night, promoting the same movie with the same clip and the same set-up that gets really old.  But even this pales in comparison to what really gets my goat.  And a week never goes by without it happening.  Sometimes it happens twice in one night.  And it’s never the actors, only the actresses.  And no, it’s not their ridiculously short dresses that they intermittently tug down, as though they had NO IDEA how it would register on camera, as though a stylist strapped them down in a chair and dressed them against their will, never explaining how fabric bends when one moves from standing to sitting, or worse–some madman appeared just before they went on stage and hacked six inches off their dress with a cleaver.  The nerve!

But that’s not it.  What chaps my hide is how often they touch their hair.  I don’t mean once or twice.  I mean every couple of seconds.  Inhale, touch hair, exhale, be normal.  Inhale, touch hair, exhale, sit still like a composed human being.  And they try to play it off as though they weren’t doing it.  Jay Leno will say a witty retort, and they will laugh nervously, and bang!  There goes the hand up to the face.  Half the time, their hair isn’t even IN their face to begin with.  They just want to touch it, like they’re Kelly LeBrock and they just started using Pantene, and they can’t believe how touchable it is.  It is so annoying.  Sometimes they will take the same strand of hair and attempt to pull it back behind their right ear, but it’s just a TOUCH too short, and so it immediately falls forward, and yet they spend the entire segment, fiddling with it, yanking and falling, yanking and falling.  Katie Holmes is the worst!  And no, it doesn’t make you look cute and sweet and humble, and aw, shucks.  It makes me wonder 1) why are you so damn insecure if you are a famous Hollywood actress millionaire or 2) you need to upgrade your Hold Control on your hairspray.  Can I suggest TRESemme (ooh la la) extreme hold?  That’s like five dollars at Walgreen’s, and that crap’s not moving.  Not in a tsunami.

I’m not talking about hair twirling.  It’s not just a casual, playful thing.  It’s moving it back, moving it out of the face, pushing it away, over and over and over and over again.  Mila Kunis.  Demi Moore.  It’s not sexy.  It’s distracting.  Don’t their publicists tell them to ix-nay the hair-touching after so many repeat offenses?  Look, if you simply cannot control yourself, perhaps you should do what Scarlett Johansson so often does.  Wear an updo with nary a tendril in sight.  Pulled completely off the face.  Then there’s nowhere to hide.  And isn’t that the point?  Aren’t talk shows for shameless self-promotion?  If you still can’t fight the fixation, then just grab the water mug and sip.  Some people do that a lot.  Just don’t take it to extremes.  Maybe you could tug on your earlobe like some hyperactive Carol Burnet.  Bring that one back into vogue.  Or rub that chin hair nub back and forth, the one you plucked three nights ago.   Or–and this is crazy–you could simply fold your hands in your lap and act like a lady–and I can’t believe I’m saying this–like Britney Spears did on Kimmel last September.  She kept her hands in her lap and off her face.  She did have the world’s shortest oufit on, though.  And she was all stiff, like maybe she needed to pee.  But her hair looked fabulous, all Barbarella and sexpot.  And she barely touched it at all.  Go, Britney!

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