I freely admit it. I am "Technology-Resistant," primarily because I believe technology COMPLICATES my life rather than IMPROVES it. Take what happens to me when I go to the library, for example. In the olden days I used to find where a book was located by looking it up in the CARD CATALOG (see definition below).

CARD CATALOG: a prehistoric filing system used in libraries during the Mesozoic era by Neanderthals like unto myself.For sure this wasn't a perfect system. Card catalogs took up a lot of space, and a general subject search could take forever. Still, there was one spectacular advantage: YOU DIDN'T HAVE TO TAKE YOUR SECOND-GRADER ALONG WITH YOU EVERY TIME YOU WENT TO THE LIBRARY TO SHOW YOU HOW TO WORK THE COMPUTER AGAIN.

OK. So now you know how very stupid I am when it comes to computers, a fact that annoys my completely computer-savvy husband and sons, who think my life would be so much richer, not to mention fuller, if I would just join them on the thrilling fact-finding missions in cyberspace. They like to point this out to me, too, whenever the opportunity arises just like it did the other day. Here's what happened.

My kids wanted to see "Armaggedon" (a "blockbuster" summer movie in which everything including Bruce Willis blows up). I told them to get the newspaper and check for show times.

One of my teenage sons gave me a look of withering contempt. "Duh, Mom, you can get that information off the computer." Then he sat down and pulled up all the times and places "Armageddon" is showing in the Salt Lake Valley, after which he pulled up all the times and places "Armageddon" is showing in Chicago (Portage Park, the Rivoli and the Orpheum), as well as in New York City (the Astor Plaza, the Ziegfield and Queens Circuit Jackson Triplex).

"Isn't this cool, Mom?" he said. "When you're online you can find out what time `Armageddon' is playing all over the country."

It was then that something deep inside me snapped.

"Why in the world would I want to know what time a stupid flick like `Armageddon' is playing in Chicago and also in New York?" I ranted. "This is what I hate most about modern technology! I'm constantly being bombarded with worthless information I don't want or need when I can't find the answers to important things I'd really like to know such as WHAT WERE WE DOING WITH ALL THAT HAIR IN THE LATE '60S ANYWAY?"

I've been thinking about hair in the late 1960s and early 1970s lately as a result of attending my husband's high school reunion this summer where we looked at a bunch of old yearbook pictures featuring highly hairy males and females. We all had so much hair in those days that you would have thought we were receiving special hormone treatments that caused hair to grow all over our bodies, including our feet and palms. Even the teachers and staff members such as the lunch ladies were relatively hairy, which is why I'm surprised so many people back then still engaged in hair enhancement practices (see definition below).

HAIR ENHANCEMENT PRACTICE: the use of an artificial piece of hair to make you look even hairier than you did before.

In Utah County, where I grew up, we favored the following four major hairpieces:

1. the "switch": a long braid that trailed down your back.

2. the "fall": a partial wig that fell to your shoulders and ended in a Marlo Thomas-esque flip.

3. the "extension": a long piece you could swirl in a bun on the tip of your head.

4. the "wiglet" (rhymes with "piglet"): a baby wig of curls you pinned to the back of your head for halftime performances if you were a member of the American Fork High School drill team. I'm serious. A wiglet was part of the uniform, along with boots and also fishnet socks.

So back to my original question: Why were we all wearing so much hair? If you have any pet theories you would care to share with the rest of us, please write me in care of this newspaper.

Meanwhile, I still believe that technology complicates my life with too much information and too many options as those provided for me whenever I call a business establishment and have to listen for five minutes to a computerized menu of totally useless selections before I can talk to a real live human being. In fact THE MORE I THINK ABOUT THIS, THE MADDER I GET AND BEFORE YOU KNOW IT I'M JUST GOING TO . . .

Oh. Wait a minute. Someone's trying to get through on the second line. Would you mind holding for a minute while I see who it is?