The Clairol Girl, 1971

It was during my sophomore year in high school in 1971 that I'd happened upon a magnificent discovery. Like most of my kind, I struggled to fit into the world entering the new decade as a somewhat gawky teenager. The more I tried to find myself the more lost I became. Tremendous influences were everywhere; Media exploded with wild bursts of color and music was more sophisticated. The world was changing fast and I still hadn't hit my high note. Art was my primary form of expression, and I spent hundreds of man hours sketching out portraits of people who either greatly impressed me, or rocked my world. Certain classmates knew I was a good artist, but I mostly kept the ability to myself. Then one day I enjoyed minor celebrity status owing to one unforgettable female. This enchantress was known to me as “The Clairol Girl”.

Girls, whom I’d blissfully ignored as a kid, blossomed. All of a sudden, they were everywhere, and registered on my radar at every waking moment. They also terrified me; I felt bullet wounds in each knee whenever I was in their presence. Girls were my steadfast fascination though I was too shy to ask any of them out. Enter The Clairol Girl. It was in a fashion magazine ad that my eyes were introduced to an exquisite creature with thin lips, golden tresses, and devil eyes. Her "fresh everyday" look was a delicious mix of honey-blonde hair and flawless skin. I could not look away from the photo. She literally radiated from the magazine page. Her loveliness was overwhelming, and she presented as a spritely beauty that showed me there was more to life than sophomore girls. Ms. Clairol was the first girl that truly broke down my defenses.

I found myself at a loss for words; I stared at her and she stared back; Not once did her smile falter, not once did her eyes twitch. Who on earth could this be? I went into full cardiac arrest where I collapsed and died. Magazine ads sometimes found room in their finest print to provide the name of the model, but in this case, there was none. There was only this gleaming face smiling at me. I put out good money on the magazine in order to be further dazzled by that alluring face. Mind you, this was money that should have gone toward one of my favorite albums, or spent with friends. If a magazine was the thing to buy, it sure wouldn’t have been a woman’s fashion chronicle. I felt embarrassed purchasing it, and found myself checking over my shoulder for any familiar people who might see me buying it. Still, there was no stopping me; when Ms. Clairol smiled at me from the semi-gloss pulp I found myself going straight for my wallet.

Once I got home, I knew I had my mission: immortalize this epic beauty and put to paper that face using all the talent I could muster. This was to be a portrait of dire importance. Each feature, line, shape, tone and nuance needed to be, in a word, perfection. Essentially, the portrait needed to be done beyond my skill level. Then providence prevailed! As a high school art class assignment, we were given what I deemed to be an enormously fitting project: a portrait. It didn’t matter who it was, just as long as it was completed by the end of the week. Our assignment was to observe light and shadow, use a suitable medium and employ a worthy technique. In other words, it couldn't be scribbled out at the last minute. While some students groaned at the prospect of such an undertaking, I relished the task wishing I had nothing else in the world to do except begin that assignment. The timing for such a project couldn't have been better.

When Monday morning came, I wandered into class like everyone else, carrying something protected under my arm. Little did anyone know I had immortalized an angel on a sketch pad. Lady Clairol was complete and ready for unveiling. I was a bit shaky at the excitement. My teacher held it up, and there were some oohs and aahs. He nodded toward me with a smile. “Very nice work. Great detail and shading. Who is it?”
“It's Cybill Shepherd,” one of the girls in class said.
What? Just like that, the mystery was solved? After all this soul-searching-pencil-bending-starry-eyed-gazes-at-the-photo, The Clairol Girl had a name? Better yet, it was a grand name. It was as if an angelic choir sang to me while heavenly beams of sun rays illuminated my desk. The Clairol Girl was called Cybill Shepherd. Cybill; it was too perfect. This was an uncommon name in my small sphere of girl-dom. She wasn’t a Debbie, or a Cindy, or even a Michelle. Cybill was the perfect brand for this delightful creature who, in a glance, hot-wired my hormones and re-shaped my entire artistic career.

My drawing not only received an A+, but found its way to the spring art exhibit. This I hadn't expected. There were several very talented art students in school who had it over me by leaps and bounds. Cybill's exodus took her from the pages of a fashion magazine to a large sketchpad, and ultimately to the walls of our school art show. I survived 1971. I fell in and out of love with Cybill Shepherd, and hit my high note.

There were those miserable Saturdays when it was cold and raining outside and I was mandated to the indoors. "It's too cold and wet for you out there," Mom said, whenever I argued that I would be okay outside. Of course, nobody else was out, so I knew I'd be playing alone anyway. Still I argued and Mom replied with the ever-famous (wait for it) "You'll catch your death of cold out there." On those days I quickly recovered from my forced seclusion, and greatly enjoyed the day. Whenever I think of Saturdays, or Saturday mornings, my heart is always drawn to the years of 1961 through 1963. The mornings were amazing as I sat in front of the TV with action western shows and the greatest cereal on the planet to power up with. 

Saturday afternoons are also among my favorite memories. As Dad came in from the garage, and settled into his chair for the afternoon, a wonderfully wet Saturday was in store. From the kitchen came the loud whirring of Mom's electric mixer and the opening and closing of the oven door. The smell of fresh cinnamon rolls baking is one of the many flavors of my life from 1962. Dad often got up for refills of his coffee, and I faintly heard conversations mumbled in the kitchen. He kept his voice low enough so we could not hear over the TV.  Soft "I love yous" were probably being exchanged, and no doubt Dad ran his finger along hot frosting to steal a lick of flavor. 

When the cold rain fell we all gathered to the living room for afternoon entertainment on a black and white set. I remember a rare day when Dad brought home some Nestle's Crunch candy bars; our corner store didn't seem to have them in stock, so they were a real treat. He also brought home some Blue Bell BBQ potato chips, and I crunched on them as I watched Jon Gnagy drawing marvelous scenes. Jon Gnagy's TV show was a favorite in our household and played on Saturday Afternoons. To this very day I have a tremendous love of gray skies and bar-b-que potato chips simply for the memory of this particular day. Sometimes Dad and I watched westerns, or reruns of "Highway Patrol". 

Being at home in the daytime was one of the best things I can recall. Normally I'd be in school, but for whatever reason I was at home, that was the best place to be. I loved all the wonderful shows that came on, and some of them I watched faithfully with my mom. She was a busy bee in the morning doing laundry, kitchen prep for dinner, or whatever else that needed doing. Household chores kept her occupied, so I stood sentry at the TV commanding the channels, and engaging in wonderful morning shows. Some of the old classics were intolerable to me: Jack LaLanne's exercise show was one of them. He bored me to death, and even though I tried exercising along with him, it was no fun at all. Doing leg raises and jumping jacks in the early AM wasn't nearly as exciting as "The Real McCoys" or "Make Room for Daddy." Listening to Walter Brennan's "Weeeel, daygg-nabbit!" was funny, and far more entertaining than a basic leg stretch.

Afternoons were another story indeed: lunch was served, and later in the afternoon for a snack, Mom came up with something wonderful. I remember the first time I ever had a Moon Pie; it was banana flavored, and the flavor was out of this world! And though I pleaded desperately, Moon Pies never became a standard item in our kitchen cupboards. What a joy it was to be up on the couch with Mom watching reruns of sitcoms and listening to canned laughter on the TV. We also watched exciting game shows, and a particular favorite time was watching "The Loretta Young Show" with her. There was a soft and easy ambiance to our house in the daytime; hearing Mom's knitting needles click-clacking a steadt cadence is still a peaceful reminder of those days.

A peek through lace curtains on our front room window revealed the neighborhood outside. It was a sleepy place in the daytime. I was perhaps supposed to be at school writing numbers or letters, then erasing them like a mad man in my Big Chief tablet. Sometimes I was sick, and on those days, even more special treatment was in store. These are all favorite ghosts hearkening to me from the past. I love to recall game show fanfares, warbly organ soap opera music, and the excitement of Art Linkletter's "House Party." Come late afternoon cartoon shows were on, and supper would be in preparation. Dad would be home from work, my brothers home from school, and our house would be once again filled with life. Bread and butter and love was served up every night with the evening meal. This is a page of my life torn from the early '60s.

Early September Days

It was 1963, and early September found me reunited with friends walking to school together. Along the way we knocked on our neighbor's door to pick up a kid in our class. "Is Brian ready yet?" I recall asking his Mom while she called for him to hurry up and get his things. It was still very hot outside, but a bit cooler in the mornings. This was a transitional time for the weather; the colored leaves of fall were still in their infant stages, and summer was slowly surrendering to the natural order of life. The school was about three quarters of a mile away, and on our walk we dawdled, detoured, and generally took as long as possible to get there. It was early morning for me, I'd just had my breakfast, and already I was looking forward to lunch. September brought excitement of new things, and the coming change in season. The new TV shows were always exciting, and I was crazy excited over the commercials for a new show called "The Outer Limits".

On our walk, we passed by the house that was designated as the local neighborhood haunted house. On a crisp and beautiful September morning it looked innocent enough—run down, and worn—but basically harmless. However, come the gray and cold of October, ghostly eyes watched each time we passed. The house was a perfectly manifest fun spot for us as we dared each other to run up to the front door and ring the bell. None of us ever did that, but the challenge was always open, and the house remained on the road maps of our lives as a very exciting structure. Third grade was a major upgrade from my life as a second grader; we were reading more, and nouns and verbs were coming into play. Like it or not, I was about to be educated.

Early September still reminds me of these wonderful times in an equally wonderful world. My life in those days of 1963 wasn't completely about the bleak days of school, haunted houses, or the fact that summer was dying. It was all about living from day to day and squeezing in as much fun as possible. As a third grader, my biggest problem in life was not having enough army men to make up a battalion, or running out of my favorite cereal. I loved having my family and friends close by, and enjoyed the fact that there were still some sunny and warm weeks left before autumn set up shop. Those early '60s days were a true time of innocence for me. I collected rubber bugs from the vending machine at the corner store, chewed the dried out slabs of bubble gum from card packs, and looked forward to after school cookies. Thoughts of those days come to me now, keeping me wrapped in a warm robe of memories.