Gratuitous...hair?!

So, I've been thinking a lot about hair recently.

Last weekend, I watched "The Nun's Story," a 1959 film starring the inimitable Audrey Hepburn, and I was struck by how much a nun's habit reminded me of a burqa.  I hadn't really thought about it before, but I guess nuns keep their hair concealed just as the stricter forms of Islam require.

And now that I think about it--hair, or specifically, haircuts, play a pretty big role in Audrey Hepburn films!  In "Roman Holiday," her first Hollywood film, she gets her hair cut as a sign of her new-found freedom.  In "Sabrina," she goes off to Paris and returns with a chic short hairdo.  And finally, in "The Nun's Story," her hair is brusquely cut off before she becomes a novice, and we never see her hair again until the very end.

But I digress...

What really got me thinking on this subject was a performance of "Serenade," Balanchine's first "American" ballet, at the opening night of New York City Ballet's fall season.  In one section (I am unfortunately not familiar enough with the piece to know what it is called), two of the ballerinas dance with their hair completely loose.  And since their hair was blond and waist-length, it made for quite a sight, flowing and swirling as they jumped and turned, much like their long tulle skirts.

It was a striking contrast to your typical "bunhead" ballerina, and since the choreography itself was somewhat sensuous, I couldn't help but think this display of hair felt gratuitous.

Here's a pic of the Suzanne Farrell ballet performing the piece, to give you an idea of the costuming and hair:

I guess I shouldn't be surprised, since certain religions clearly find women's hair to be provocative, but it was the first time I had seriously considered the sensuousness of hair.

And then, with this in the back of my head, I happened to encounter this scene while reading Flaubert's Madame Bovary (Part Two, Chapter 14):

And the Homais children came to see her, along with Justin. He would go up to her room with them, and stand near the door, motionless, taciturn. Madame Bovary would quite often, unaware of him, sit down at her dressing-table. First she took out her comb, shaking her head with a quick gesture; and when he first saw it, that great mass of hair falling right down to her knees, the dark ringlets uncoiling, it was for him, poor boy, like a sudden initiation into something new and extraordinary, a splendour that set him trembling.

I'm guessing the fictional Justin would've enjoyed that little dance in "Serenade" quite a bit!

And, I guess this means I should let my hair grow out! ;)