Okay. Let’s hunker down and discuss the really important things in life. Like hair. Think about it. Why else would someone have come up with the concept of a “Bad Hair Day?”
I’ve taken it to new levels.
I guess it’s time to confess that I was given a lovely head of hair. Goodness knows, I grow enough of it that I should donate it to others who are in need. My two nieces did a few years ago. They had their ponies cut off and donated them to Locks of Love, an organization that provides hairpieces to disadvantaged kids suffering from medical problems that cause long term hair loss. A rather noble and unselfish gesture — and their idea — for girls so young.
No one would want my pony. It’s rather scraggly right now, as I’ve developed the habit of washing my hair at night and then getting into bed with it wet. By the morning, it’s dry, and I haphazardly run a brush through it and wrap a band around it before heading downstairs and out for my walk like I did today. This isn’t a habit I’ve developed since becoming a house potato. I started it years ago because the whole idea of taking a shower each morning, and washing my hair before leaving for work at 6:15 was just too much to imagine taking on.
I have a thatch of hair. It’s not straight, and not curly. A bit like me. Every hair dresser I’ve had has commented on the amount of hair I have, like it’s something wonderful. Try drying it when it belongs to you. Try making it behave. Try getting it to lay smoothly when it’s humid, or fall silkily to your shoulders when that’s the thing one is supposed to do with one’s hair. It has a mind of its own. Like me. It used to be blonde when I was young. White, actually. And the more time I spent in the sun, the lighter it became. It was incredibly long, also. If I remember correctly, my first hair cut took place when I was eight years old. I begged and begged to be rid of the braids my hair was woven into daily. I wanted short hair. I wanted curly hair. I wanted brown hair. I wanted someone else’s hair. Hair that people didn’t stare at and reach out to touch.
When we had to ready ourselves for church or a special occasion, out came the pink plastic and foam curlers. My mother locked them into my hair before going to bed, and just to make sure they stayed in place during the night, she’d pull a clean pair of cotton panties over my head. You do have an idea of how ridiculous this looked the next morning, don’t you, with twisted ropes of hair dangling from the panty leg holes, each sporting a pink curler in some stage of unbound glory. The very difficult thing about the roller business was that when unwound, the resulting curls were not exactly alike. One sausage ringlet was bent in the middle. Or after my hair was a bit shorter, one side of the upward flip would be lower than the other. Or one side of the page boy lacked a perfect face hugging scallop. Heaven forbid if one side flipped and the other flopped. They were never symmetrical. I hated them. I felt that everyone would notice. Such vanity for someone not wanting people to notice her.
Clearly, that is not my problem now. Well, I thought not.
Today, I’m finally cashing in on the gift certificate I was graciously given at Christmas. I’m going to the hair salon. The salon I frequented for four years every six to eight weeks. The salon where my two lovely guys still toil and gossip. The guys I haven’t seen since last August. I can imagine they’re going to either not recognize me at all, or stop dead in their tracks and shriek with horror when they see my rat nest hair. Marco will wonder just how many shades of color it is. And Mark? I can’t imagine. Something along the lines of, “What were you thinking?” as he dares to lift one of my gnarled tresses. But I have my strategy planned. “Going grey,” I’ll glibly reply, and we’ll all laugh as the heavy equipment is rolled from the back room for my three-hour appointment. Yes, I have a lot of hair.
And how will it end up? I’m not sure because I haven’t ignored it to this length for more than 13 years. I’ve wondered a bit, about what it could look like even though I’ve become quite fond of winding it up in a comb or pushing it behind my ears.
This cut is cute, but I’d have to iron and fix it with my wiggly hair wanting to go everywhere. Why would I want to fix my hair? If I fixed my hair, it would make my face look badly. If I took the time to put on makeup, I’d have to think about my clothes. It’s an unfortunate sequence of events, if you ask me.
I like the color of this cut, but would probably not be able to put up with the sultry tufts hanging over my poutiness while I’m blogging. Or cleaning the toilets.
This one is cute, but I’ve had my hair cut this way quite often over the years since I was 16 — except not purple. A purple cow is coming to mind about now. I’d need a bell for my neck. Moooooo….
I could leave it long and have it layered like this, but I’d need a face transplant to go with it. And a battery operated fan to roll in front of me where ever I wander.
Or sign up for reincarnation.
But I completely have to avoid helmet hair. It could never be me — or anyone else, for that matter. Do they take it off at night? And where do you hang it after it’s washed?
I’m tempted to do this, since my face is oval and the hair style police say it’s a good cut for me.
But this, or even this is more likely because the body police say that even though short would look great with my face, I need substance on my head to balance out my curves on the remaining 99% of my body.
So I will have to apply my makeup carefully today, and bring some order to my hair in much the same way one might clean one’s house before the maid arrives. I will have to find a pair of cute capris, and a summery top. Put my chin in the air and proceed with an air of I’m so comfortable doing this…
Or, I could wear a bag over my head and save myself some time.
It would be a challenge to get down the hill, however.