I've looked at this photograph of Sarah Moon more times than I can count, and I still fail to figure out what went down.
It has been presented as a selfie, and also, somewhere, as a Bailey portrait of her. Neither of which matter much; what disturb are the planes: is she behind a window, is she in front of one, is the bottom part of the window broken off, or is it clever melding of originals?
Whatever, it works for me as much as it also exasperates my natural curiosity.
And the look, of course, is perfect.
Okay, another one from somewhere, but maybe it reveals why she was a model first of all and hey, she's been faithfull to the hairstyle forever!
So was my wife, after our first kid came along and she decided to revert to the long hair she had when we met; remember Veronica Lake? that was what she wore at 15. Loved that large wave hiding and revealing!
She hated going to hairdressers, and eventually we did one another's heads. Of course, for her, it got easier, but then she had to deal with making beards look even and, well, cultivated rather than wild.
Until the chemo, it was straight and long - no, not the beard - and I'd cut it wet. Miss all of that, as I do my own thatch. The poor old ponytail gets thinner by the week; one day it may not be there when I reach for it on getting out of the bed. The stretched rubber band will probably be there, however. And the little alarm clock.