A Hairy Situation
It is a fundamental truth of life that females deplore their hair. I’ve never met a woman who cited her tresses as her favorite feature. If our hair is straight, we complain that it’s limp and stringy, and we pine for the lush curls of our ringleted counterparts. Curly hair is simply too unruly, too frizzy, too big, too tangly, and stick-straight hair would solve all of those Nasty Dilemmas of Coiffure.
As often happens, I am the opposite of my Mother.
At the ripe young age of almost-two, my hair is already mousy brown, straight and stringy. My Mother tried to style it by throwing a portion of it on top of my head in a barrette, but that did little more than condition me to throw all of it up in clips and rubber bands to avoid fixing it as an adult.
In elementary school, stringy-hair-syndrome had fully set in. I suppose the gap in my bangs matched the gap in my front teeth……
At some point, like most females of a certain age, I decided my hair was too straight. I paid real cash to have someone make me look like an electrocution victim. Around this time (I was twenty-two in this picture), those nasty white strands also started appearing with horrifying regularity. For a while, I pulled them out. Then, I realized if I didn’t stop, I was going to look like this again……
And, bald isn’t a very fetching look for an adult female, regardless of how easy it might be to manage. After evaluating my options, I decided blonde was the way to go.
The highlights masked the white while giving my hair (SURPRISE!) the ideal amount of body and shine. Even after flying all night and not combing it, I loved my hair. Only, being hair, it rebelled against my worship of it, going into overdrive to produce more icky white follicles than the blonde could ever trick the eye into containing. Drastic measures of Hair Therapy were required…..
Red. It was the only thing my feeble, highlighted-into-malfunctioning mind could do. After two years as a red head, I still don’t like it. I often shriek when I see that woman in the mirror who turns out to be me.
What do you recommend I do with my hair, Dear Reader?