Every so often I decide to straighten my hair. It goes like this.
Optimistic me: “I’m tired of the half curl, half wave look, let’s go straight!”
Realistic Me: “But that never goes well.”
OM: “Yeah, but that new product will do the trick, I’m sure of it.”
RM: “Sigh, okay.”
Ten minutes later: “What the actual heck did I do?!”
RM: “I knew it.”
It’s really not much better when I let it curl, it’s just that the chaos is more predictable, therefore almost always the lesser of the evils.
I see people whose hair is styled the same way every day, and I literally marvel. If you have caught me staring at you, your controllable and predictable hair is the most likely reason. You, my friend, blow my mind.
When I get up each day I make an offering to the hair gods in an ill fated attempt to appease them, and they smite me nearly every time. But there’s that rare occasion when the planets align and my hair cascades into place in proper fashion, it is nothing short of glorious. Lightly curled, not too voluminous, and moderately Boho, I feel stunning on the off day that my hair does cooperate.
Then there’s my tendency to play with my hair, whether out of boredom, tension or pondering, my hands find their way to my hair and then all bets are off. If I were cognizant of my actions I would halt them, but it seems that I have no notion I’m even doing it. As such, often, even on the best hair days I wind up looking like Einstein after a few hours.
The ambivalence I have toward my hair is astounding. One would think that with all it’s foibles I would wish it away or want to trade with Suzie McPerfectHair, but my hair is as I am. A little bold, a little soft, a lot Bohemian, and a touch of heathen. You see, my hair matches me, and even when I want to yank it all out, I still adore it.