Once upon a time, there was a suburban teenage girl who became uncomfortable in her comfortable surroundings. She believed in past lives, revolution and love. She read Hunter Thompson, Abbie Hoffman and the classics. Much of her free time was spent thinking about boys and listening to music. Among her most pressing concerns was her hair. It was a strange and magical time, sandwiched between the end of disco and the birth of hip-hop. Cigarettes were .70 cents a pack and rock and roll was everything. Coming of age in Southern California under the haze of air pollution and in the shadow of the sexual revolution presented unique challenges for romantic nonconformists.
Eventually, she retired her puka shells in favor of bondage bracelets (though she knew nothing of their origins) and headed east on Sunset Boulevard, speeding past her high school, her junior high school, Dead Man’s Curve and the lux exteriors of Beverly Hills. Hollywood, where discarded dreams drain to the ocean and fame is awarded to the least deserving, is where she found belonging—and her best hair ever. This is her story.