Each hair-day begins with defeat for me. The tangle at the base of my skull has its own zip code. It seems like there are small animals reconstructing a nest there each night with enthusiastic fervor. I can’t be the only one this happens to…right?! My long, boring hair hangs, rife with indecision on my disappointed head. I am convinced I look like an 80s realtor displayed on some bus stop bench out in sunny Pomona; complete with shoulder pads, serious plastic pearls and fluffy awful bell head!
Going to college in Boston, during the 90s, I was able to color my hair magenta and ride the grunge wave, complete with a nose ring and stocking cap. A series of horrible color choices through my New York days ensued. The large majority of them were like touting a car accident as a crown and made me finally stick to a hair color with less dimension than that bean dip I had at today’s office party.
I lack the knowledge to combat any of these challenges, except I know how to make an OK ponytail and wear a lot of festive hats. When walking into to my my hairdresser’s salon, I walk in with the same resignation every visit. I bring the requested images of hairstyles on my phone but am still stuck by the amazing communication divide I have always had with my stylists. “Bell shaped hair” is an affliction worse than toe fungus and I would rather not live my life in a ponytail. Maybe I don’t know how to ask for what I want? Sadly, I just don’t think we are speaking the same language.
My current stylist is talented, really talented! But, her flawless outlook and effortless edginess is intimidating to someone like me. Unfortunately, I believe the time it takes to actually ‘style’ my hair would be better invested practicing French or learning something useful like emergency medicine or the ancient art of napkin folding, I am both in awe of her and equally terrified to ask her the questions that would probably turn me into a hair maven.
Her hair is so perfect “Skynet” uses it to calibrate their nuclear warheads and I silently marvel at her pristine outfit. I try to communicate my frustration and lack of hair knowledge to the Shiny Perfect Hair Goddess dragging a comb through my tangled pile of hair. She delivers a blinding arctic white smile and nods. I may be jealous of her teeth too. I know in a few days, that rat-troplis pony tail will rise again.
I haven’t given up hope just yet! Although, I’m not selling my hat collection on a blanket on the Venice boardwalk next to crazy Boston Terrier either. Stay tuned… More of my hair trials and tribulations are sure to come. Whether I like it or not.
