It’s another installment of the Faces of the Price is Right, where we seek to study the people whose true selves may be obscured by outdated hair. The visages of 1973, haunting us from across the gulf of space and time. No alt-text this time, because. Just because.
I went to high school with 94574 girls who looked like this. The straight part, the blue eye-shadow, the whole corn-fededness:
The Florence-Henderson look. Her neck appears to show the first miliseconds of an entry wound. Ten years later, you could tighten up the ‘do, color it jet black or bleached blonde, and you’d have a Bona-Fide Post-Punk Punk Chick, Midwest college division.
Undergoing an absolutely seamless transition from Ma to Grandma:
Speaking on behalf of all young males in 1973: you stay right there, and I’ll go get the Boone’s Farm. Here, you listen to some Rush while I’m gone. Just be a minute.
Let’s go back to Connie, and extend our deepest sympathies. The sternum-high elastic midriff. The Waistcoat of Pain.
Gramps seems to like it. Creepy old gramps.
Ah, but it’s more than people. It’s products. Fanta. Still around, but the packages are no longer so awesomely 70s. The typeface, the logo, the colors, the design - this was actually pretty good for the era.
Behold – Interior Desecrators in the wild. Fungal chairs, dead wood, bright blue carpet. Criminey.
Finally: we learn where the Gobbler got its furniture.
You'd get enough static electricity rolling around on that thing to fry Skylab just by pointing at it from the ground.