Andrea Wilson Woods' Blog

For most of my 39 years, I have had long hair. Straight, fine, shiny hair with the color changing over the years. Strawberry blonde, dark auburn, bright red, bangs or no bangs, people define me by my hair. I don’t know how many times I have heard, “I knew it was you because of your hair.” When your hair becomes part of your identity, you become reluctant to change it.

However, as many women can attest, in times of crises, we like to change our hair. Radically. During the summer of 1996, my sister Adrienne and I decided to cut our hair off. She opted for a spiky Winona Ryder look; I chose Josie Bissett’s style—all bangs in the front and super short in the back. Adrienne’s friends at school teased her and said she looked like a boy. My friends didn’t say anything at all. Yeah, it wasn’t our best hair decision. Neither one of us cut our hair that short ever again.

When my hair grew out, I didn’t vary it for almost a decade. Occasionally I would add a few layers, but then I would freak out and want my hair all one length again. I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror if my hair didn’t fall four inches past my collarbone. I only bothered to get a trim when I felt the ends hit my bra strap. I was bored with my hair but too scared to do anything about it. I took a baby step by bringing back my bangs in December 2007. When people commented on how much younger I looked, I thought I would keep my bangs forever.

After three years of managing bangs, I was bored again. Besides, bangs are a pain in the ass. I wanted and needed a transformation. It was November 2010 and my husband was working and living in Detroit. I was alone all the time. I could almost hear the stress encouraging me, even daring me … Chop it off. Chop it off. Chop it off. I knew my husband would hate short hair on me, but it would grow back and after all, it was my hair. I started researching styles using thehairstyler.com, and I made the appointment.

My hairdresser was supportive and realistic about what would look best on me. When I tried to talk her into a punk-style cut, she replied, “I don’t think you’re ready for that radical of a change.” I finally agreed to an angular cut with the longest layer hitting my chin and the shortest layer hitting the nape of my neck. My bangs were longer so she blended them into the cut. When she was done, I expected to burst into tears. Instead, I grinned. I had chopped off my locks and survived. As an added bonus, my hair is now slightly wavy when it’s shorter and cut into layers. For a girl who grew up with stick-straight hair, it was as if a miracle had occurred. Thank you hormones.

Since that first chop, I’ve had many styles. My bangs no longer exist. I tried a body wave to enhance the natural curl. I played around with a bob. I invested in hot rollers. This week, I’m ditching the bob, adding layers, and telling my hairdresser to go for it. The best part is that I’m not scared anymore. My hair no longer defines me.

Shortly after that first chop, I went out to a nightclub with a girlfriend, and I’ll admit that I was worried whether or not men would find me attractive with short hair. (I may be married, but I’m not dead.) My girlfriend laughed and reminded me that I was still the same person no matter what length my hair was. After several men asked me to dance, I realized how right she was and how wrong I had been.

The only person who turned my hair into a character trait instead of a physical attribute was … me. To all the people who saw past my hair even when I didn’t, I thank you.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. What is your biggest hair disaster? Biggest hair success?

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Casey Anthony: guilty or innocent? If guilty, 1st or 2nd degree murder; manslaughter; or aggravated child abuse? Life in prison or death row?

The above text is my current Facebook status. I posted it yesterday when the defense of Tot Mom Casey Anthony decided she would not take the stand and rested their case. I never expected anyone to defend Casey, but the vitriol of some of the comments surprised me.

• “So guilty, fry the bitch!”
• “Beheading in a public square with no hood”

I have not watched the trial in its entirety, but I have seen enough to know there is zero direct evidence to connect Casey to the killing of her two-year-old daughter Caylee Anthony. Like many criminal cases, the one against Casey is entirely circumstantial. The only thing the prosecution has proved is that she lied, and this conclusion was evident prior to the trial. Casey was previously charged with thirteen separate felonies for check fraud; she was convicted of six counts. Currently, the official charges against Casey are:

• First-degree murder
• Aggravated child abuse
• Aggravated manslaughter of a child
• 4 counts of providing false information to a law enforcement officer

Given her history of dishonesty, she was guilty of lying to the police before she walked into the courtroom. Indeed, every analyst on television from psychologists to lawyers has called Casey a pathological liar. The word sociopath is tossed around as well. Despite her history of lying, despite her inappropriate behavior, despite her demeanor in the courtroom, I want to give her the benefit of the doubt for two reasons: I never want to believe a mother could kill her child; and I believe a person is innocent until proven guilty. Isn’t that the tenet of our justice system?

Although I suspect Casey is guilty, I have tried to keep an open mind though I never believed defense attorney Jose Baez’s opening statement, “She [Caylee] drowned in her family’s swimming pool.” Baez also alleged that Casey’s father George helped her cover it up and that she didn’t tell anyone because she learned to keep secrets as a child as a result of her father molesting her. Providing an alternate theory of the crime is not an unusual defensive strategy; however, Baez’s theory shifted the burden of proof from the prosecution to the defense. The only people who could testify to the events described by Baez were George, who denied them and Casey, who didn’t testify. Either Baez is an incompetent buffoon or a brilliant genius who has laid the grounds for an appeal due to ineffective counsel.

Putting aside Baez’s bizarre story, the most troubling piece of circumstantial evidence is the Internet search history on the Anthonys’ home computer. Words can reveal so much about someone’s thoughts. For example, my recent search history shows me Googling: “Zulu Mastiff TPLO Blog”; “How long does it take to heal from a TPLO surgery”; and “Family Reunion Award ideas.” You can clear your history and remove the cookies, but your computer still remembers your activity such as searching for the word chloroform 84 times as someone did on the Anthonys’ computer. Since no one saw Casey doing the searches, her mother Cindy chose to perjure herself on the stand. She stated when she searched for “chlorophyll” the word “chloroform” popped up. I don’t blame Cindy for lying; she is only trying to save her daughter’s life, but seriously … it popped up? 84 times? The prosecution wasted no time in calling rebuttal witnesses to prove that Cindy was at work during the time of the searches and that “pop-ups” could not have occurred the way she described them.

The only time I search for one word or phrase repeatedly is when I want in-depth knowledge on the subject or when I am looking for a website that I forgot to bookmark from a previous time. Out of curiosity, I Googled the word “chloroform” and the first entry was Wikipedia. Under the “As an Anesthetic” paragraph is this line, “Chloroform has been used by criminals to knock-out, daze, or even murder their victims.” So here’s my question … why 83 more searches? And why did someone—allegedly Casey—search the words “neck breaking”? The only logical explanation is that the person looking up that information is a mystery writer or a future killer. To date, no one in the Anthony home has claimed to be writing a novel.

Without the family computer’s Internet search history, I think there might be reasonable doubt. After all, the cause of Caylee’s death is undetermined. The timeline regarding Casey’s possession of her car is confusing and her parents have given conflicting statements regarding the odor they smelled in it. Roy Kronk, the meter reader who discovered Caylee’s remains, is just one of the several unreliable witnesses who testified. However, no one can deny those Internet searches. They exist. They cannot be disputed. They are real evidence … of someone’s thoughts, motivation, and plan of premeditated murder.

Casey Anthony killed her daughter Caylee. Technology has practically proved it, but without physical evidence connecting Casey to the crime, the jury should not sentence her to death. Instead, they should give Casey life in prison, which is a more appropriate and far worse punishment. Think about it.

• No more parties.
• No more drinking.
• No more boyfriends.
• No more fun.

Can you imagine Casey living among the general population? I’ve heard child killers are at the bottom of the prison totem pole.

If you want Casey to suffer for her crime, force her to live with it … every day … for the rest of her life.

AWW — XoXo

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Note: this blog is a continuation in a two-part series. I recommend reviewing Being Bullied: Part One—the Bitch before reading this post.

Even before cell phones existed, news spread fast in junior high especially if a catfight was going to occur. I don’t remember how I found out, but suddenly, I was supposed to show up for battle the following Friday after the “bitch” episode had happened. I didn’t relish the thought of fighting Michelle but we were both lightweights. What I didn’t count on was her enlisting her friend Stacey.

Stacey scared me. She scared a lot of people. She was taller than most students were. With her short, spiky hair, black eyeliner, and tough-girl attitude, she intimidated everyone. I had seen her fight before, and she had won with her hands holding pieces of the other girl’s hair. I thought about what Susan had said, “She [Michelle] has friends.” I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have a shot in hell against a fight with Stacey.

I was hoping the whole thing would go away. It didn’t. The week of the fight older students I didn’t know started tripping me in the hallways and shoving me against lockers. Michelle had friends everywhere; more importantly, she had power. I avoided Michelle during PE class. I kept my head down and my mouth shut except when I turned to Susan for emotional support. She sighed and said, “I told you she has friends.” That’s when I realized that Susan was glad that Michelle had laid off her and focused on me.

Filled with pain, loneliness, and fear, I finally decided to confide in my mother. Up until that time, I had never told my parents how unhappy I was school. I didn’t see the point. I couldn’t switch schools, and they couldn’t fix my problems. However, I thought my mother deserved a fair warning if I returned home looking black and blue with a suspension slip in my hand. Like Casey Heyne’s school, our junior high’s policy was an automatic suspension for anyone involved in a fight. I also wanted my mother’s advice.

When I asked her what I should do she said, “Well … I don’t want to see you get hurt, but you have to stand up to this girl.” I nodded knowing she was right but wishing there was another way out. “If you don’t stand up for yourself now, a bully will always bully you.” I frowned as I wondered how much hair I would have left on my head.
“But don’t throw the first punch,” said my mother, “that way you will be defending yourself.” I didn’t tell her that one punch from Stacey would most likely knock me unconscious.

On Friday I could barely concentrate during my morning classes. All I could think about was the upcoming fight with Stacey scheduled outside the cafeteria during my lunch period. I thought about hiding in the library, but I knew I would only be prolonging the inevitable. I thought about what I had going for me. Strength—no. Size—definitely not. Then it occurred to me … maybe what had gotten me into this mess would get me out of it: my mouth.

Shaking on the inside but trying to appear brave on the outside, I showed up at the designated spot at the planned time. Michelle and Stacey were already there. Our fellow students swarmed around us quickly forming a thick circle that prevented teachers from seeing the action but still gave us enough room to brawl. You can talk your way out of this.

Stacey approached me and peered down, “So I hear you called my mother a bitch.” What? How many lies did Michelle tell her?

Inhaling deeply, I replied, “No. I wouldn’t do that. I called Michelle a bitch.” Michelle immediately protested claiming her story was the truth. Stacey looked back and forth. I could see the doubt in her eyes. Keep talking. “I don’t know you or your mother. Why would I say something like that?”

Stacey stepped back and glanced at Michelle, “Well?”

Feeling empowered I continued. “I called Michelle a bitch; I’ll fight her, but I don’t want to fight you. Besides … I heard if you get into one more fight you will be expelled.” The last part was only a rumor, but I was hoping it was true.

From the look on Stacey’s face, I had hit a nerve. “She’s right Michelle. I can’t fight her. You go ahead.”

I exhaled. Still a fight, but at least it was a fair one now. I waited. I could feel the students around me waiting, too—hundreds of eyes were on Michelle. We were all wondering what she would do now without her scary sidekick. I remembered reading somewhere about body language and keeping a firm stance so I planted my feet in the ground willing them not to run away.

Just when I thought I would have to lift my fists to block her punch, Michelle looked down, kicked a pebble on the ground, and said, “Oh hell. Fine. Let’s go.” She motioned to Stacey. They walked away. The circle of students immediately dissipated; many disappointed I’m sure that nothing had happened. I probably stood there a full minute before relief washed over me. I smiled. I may not have had the muscle to body slam the bully like Casey Heynes did, but I had still used my strongest asset. My big mouth had saved my little ass.

About a month later, Stacey disappeared from school after fighting another girl; she was supposedly expelled. Michelle never spoke to me again after that day even though we still had PE together for the rest of the school year. My friendship with Susan slowly fizzled out like soda losing its carbonation. I figured she didn’t stand by me so she could fight her own battles. Besides, Michelle had moved onto her next target.

No one ever picked on me again. As for Casey Heynes, I suspect he will meet with a similar fate. He may not have many friends (yet), but he has surely gained the respect of his peers. One thing is certain, bullies come in all shapes and sizes and they even use different methods (e.g., cyber bullying), but until you stand up to them, you will always be bullied.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. I normally change people’s names to protect their privacy, but I see nothing wrong with outing a bully, her co-conspirator, or a so-called friend. Therefore, I thank

• Susan for teaching me that some friends are not worth defending,
• Stacey for having the good sense not to hit me that day, and
• Michelle for showing the entire student body that you were nothing more than a mean, manipulative, bullying bitch.

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When a bully started punching 15-year-old Casey Heynes at school, he surely didn’t realize someone was filming the incident and he would eventually become a Youtube sensation. Although the bully—12-year-old Ritchard Gale—is much smaller, Casey endured several punches before he picked up Ritchard and slammed him to the ground. After years of being tormented, the gentle giant snapped. An easy target who had never previously retaliated, Casey doesn’t have many close friends to help him fend off bullies; he was alone when Ritchard and his buddies confronted him.

Per the school’s policy, both boys were suspended for four days even though Ritchard initiated the fight (Ritchard claims Casey verbally taunted him first). Although most people support Casey for defending himself, his action has stirred up a controversy: had he gone too far? After all, Casey is much larger than Ritchard; the body slam could have seriously hurt the younger boy though he only suffered a scraped knee and a bruised ego.

As someone who has been bullied, I wonder what took Casey so long. How did he withstand years of misery? I wouldn’t have survived that environment. In fact, I remember seventh grade at Ramsey Junior High School as being the worst school year ever.

• I possessed a high IQ but I wasn’t smart enough to be a nerd.
• I played the flute but I didn’t practice enough to be a band geek.
• I was friendly but I wasn’t perky enough to be on the Pep Squad.
• I wore decent clothes but I didn’t wear the labels that ensured popularity.
• I had an athletic body but I wasn’t interested in joining the track team although the coach asked me every other week.

In short, I didn’t fit in with any one group so I felt like an outcast. When I did make friends, it rarely worked out. I met Sandy and Jennifer separately, but when I introduced them to each other, they dumped me to become best friends. As one of the smallest girls in a school with a population of over 1000 students, I was sometimes locked into our full-size lockers. The girls in my PE class nicknamed me “Young and the Breastless” and made fun of me for bothering to wear a training bra. When another supershort girl Michelle started becoming friendly toward me, I was hopeful. We were both around 4′11″ tall. We were both talkative. We liked the same stuff. Things were going well until I realized that Michelle was a major bully.

Michelle started picking on a girl named Susan in our PE class. Susan was shy, awkward and slightly overweight—the primary reason I believe she was targeted. Susan never defended herself. She hung her head when Michelle hurled insults. I wasn’t even close friends with Susan; however, when I saw how Michelle treated her, I stopped being Michelle’s friend and starting becoming Susan’s PE pal. We walked track together. I told her to ignore Michelle. I reminded Susan that she was taller and smarter. As our class walked off the track one day and trudged back to the gym, Michelle made her usual nasty comments before giggling and turning away. Under my breath I said, “God you are such a bitch.”

Michelle whipped her head around so fast I thought it would fall off. “Whatcha say?”

“You heard me.”

“You’re gonna pay.”

Susan shook her head at me. “You shouldn’t have said that. She has friends.”

I stared at Susan. I wanted to remind her that I was defending her. That Michelle picked on her not me. Just before the bell rang, Michelle cornered me in the gym. We were alone. “You shouldn’t have called my mother a bitch.”

“What? I called you a bitch. I don’t even know your mother.” I didn’t tell Michelle that for me to even utter a curse word (at that age) was shocking. I had never called anyone a bitch before. Well, I had not said the word aloud.

“You called my mother a bitch and you’re going to pay for it.” I shrugged my shoulders and walked away. I knew Michelle meant to cause some trouble, but I didn’t know exactly what it was. I found out soon enough.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. Being Bullied: Part Two—the Fight is coming soon!

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What does it mean to be beautiful? Is beauty in the eye of the beholder or does beauty come from within? Why does the adjective “beautiful” carry more weight than attractive, pretty, or hot? I started pondering this idea when I was watching the Joan Rivers documentary A Piece of Work and she said that no man had ever told her she was beautiful. Not even her long-deceased husband.

I am not a “natural” beauty and by that I mean I don’t roll out of bed looking beautiful. Besides being grouchy, Morning Me consists of tangled, limp hair; dry, ruddy skin; chapped, cracked lips; and hollowed eyes with dark circles from a permanent lack of sleep (and genes I think). I am not Haunted House scary, but I look like I need a visit to a salon ASAP. Somehow, I imagine Angelina Jolie does not have this problem.

However, when I fix my flaws, I often receive compliments. Depending on location, attire, and company, I have heard “sexy, hot, gorgeous, amazing” and my all-time favorite [insert sarcastic tone] “cute.” But I rarely hear beautiful, which is why on my wedding day I was determined to be beyond beautiful. I aimed for radiant, dazzling, magnificent, stunning, but secretly … I just wanted beautiful. It took much preparation to achieve my goal.

My makeup/hair woman Jenn and I had a trial run two weeks prior to my wedding day. We discussed everything from the arch of my eyebrows to the exact shade of my lipstick. She showed me how to make the color last throughout the evening with minimal touch-ups. (It did.) We determined how to lace the gold ribbon through the curls of my hair updo. Jenn suggested that I spray down the wisps by my ears so they wouldn’t show up in pictures. (I forgot to do it and they did.) I don’t think I have ever looked or felt as beautiful as I did on my wedding day. And yes, many people told me I was a beautiful bride and I know they meant it.

I think beauty has to start within for the beholder to see it, yet it is also a unique combination of genes, physical appearance, self-esteem, and personal energy.

For example, I will never have Katharine Hepburn cheekbones, but I love the color of my eyes—a perfect blend of green and blue with a hint of grey. Although I am too thin right now, I know my body, and I can dress to impress when I set my mind to it. If the event matters to me, I think about every aspect of my outfit: color, pattern, texture, and shine. The bare minimum makeup includes foundation to even out my skin tone; concealer to cover my dark under-eye circles; mascara to show off my eyes; and lipstick or gloss to accentuate my lips and teeth. Even when I feel unattractive, all of this “outside” window dressing boosts my self-esteem. I find it incredibly hard not to smile when I am wearing a bold, bright red lipstick, and once I have smiled, my energy increases. I may not jump around like a college student drinking Four Loko, but I feel fetching. Sometimes, I even feel beautiful.

It sounds cliché, but if you don’t feel your own beauty, no one else will ever see it—especially a man. Right now, I am sitting here wearing baggy jeans, an ugly “teacher” sweater, and granny panties (my husband’s favorite). My reddish-blonde hair, now cut at my chin, is clean but messy because I constantly run my fingers through it when I am writing. I never wear makeup at home although my chapped lips have a slight reddish tint from the wine I am currently sipping.

Unfortunately, there is a large mirror next to my laptop so if I wanted to I could list all of my physical faults in great detail, but I won’t. Suffice it to say, I don’t look beautiful right now. Cute, maybe. Tired, definitely. More importantly, I see someone who is attractive, smart, funny, loving, creative, perhaps a bit crazy, and on her best day: beautiful.

AWW — XoXo

P.S. To any man who reads this blog: we [women] want beautiful! Really, we do. Genuine compliments get you everywhere. At least, they do with me.

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