I’ve been trying to grow out my hair for 50 plus years.

Forever hoping for a long silky mane to reflect back from the mirror, only to be disappointed by stringy strands that never seem to reach past my shoulders before I give up in frustration and take the scissors to them.

Marcia Brady got the boys. Peggy Lipton nabbed the bad guys. Cher got the notes right. And then there’s me, forever a pixie with short, dishwater brown locks. Perfect for a role in “Peter Pan,” but out of place at Woodstock. 

Mexico is a terrible place to land if you’re a woman of the sixties who came of age when “Hair” was the hit musical on Broadway and long tresses were the norm.  

All it takes is a walk down any street in Guadalajara to find myself patting down that frustrating cowlick and bemoaning whatever genes made me a short haired girl.

I stare in awe at the long braids walking in front of me. Classy chignons that appear effortless. Shiny, dark  tresses flowing down backs. It’s impossible to escape the envy.  

Good hair seems to be the birthright of Mexican women. Even the toddlers that I see walking into my grandson’s preschool have longer and thicker ponytails than I’ve managed to get in all my years of trying.

“Give me a head with hair, long beautiful hair, shining, gleaming, streaming ...” is the song that’s been playing in my head ever since I arrived.

Maybe it’s something in the water, I hoped, as I avoided the bottles and filters and drank my eight glasses a day straight from the tap.

Or perhaps in the diet, I decided, as I stuffed myself day after day with churros and tacos.

To no avail. 

Copper Canyon, San Miguel de Allende and the Yucatan Peninsula are some of the beautiful sites promoted by the tour books. All worthwhile, no doubt. 

But for my money, it’s the tresses.