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Phyllis Chesler
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Posted in: Feminism, Women and Madness

Published on Apr 18, 2020 by Phyllis Chesler

Published by Phyllis Chesler


There I am, with my beloved red Selectric typewriter, my glasses of yore, and my still long hair, working in a cabin in the woods at the MacDowell Artist’s Colony in Peterborough, New Hampshire.

Someone would leave a picnic lunch basket on the porch so that we did not have to lose a moment away from our sacred workspace. Oh, how I loved the seclusion. And how redolent the trees and earth smelled and how happy were the sounds of birds trilling. I was alone in the “forest primeval” and loving it.

There I am, looking so serious, so determined, and yet so at ease, purposeful. Within two years, maybe less, I would rush into Vidal Sasoon and demand the shortest cut possible. And why? I no longer had the time to dry long hair. Interestingly enough, sculpted short hair brought out the “femme” in me and saved me precious hours.

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