How can I control my life when I can’t control my hair? ~Author Unknown
Who are these unknown authors and why don’t they make their identities known? We often like what they have to say, but the anonymous factor makes them suspect. If we have something good to say, we’d at least like a little credit rather than having it all go to anonymous.
We’re having a bad hair month. Do you love your hair? We’ve never been very crazy about ours. Joyce owns an extremely thick head of hair, helmet-like at times. But she, too, complains about hers. The straights want curly, the curlies want straight. The thicks can’t get a comb through, the thins are constantly fluffing strands. The blondes want to be dark and mysterious, the brunettes dream of highlights. The brillo pads want soft, the softs will take ANY body. Balds would kill for fuzz, and CNN claims reds are becoming extinct. And on and on it goes.
When we were young our hair color was called dirty dishwater. We’ve never seen that as a shade for OPI. Can you picture it? BFF 1 comments, “What nail color is THAT?” BFF 2 replies, “Oh, it’s a new shade by OPI called Flirty Dirty Dishes.” Bottles are not, dare we say, flying off the shelves.
During our teen years we began to cover up the dirt in the dishwater by using Clairol Quiet Touch. It was quiet little hair secret that took you from dirty to dazzling:
Yes, it was nice. And easy. Just like the box promised. Back then we got together with Schmuck, Krollie-ental, Frac, and Frito and painted our hair. We were artists. We became semi-blonde. And when Joyce and The Bobster picked us up from Schmuck’s house that day, they said all parent-like, “Well, well, well.”
Then we entered into the permanent decade. The perm. It gave us body and frizz. The friends who never permed and wore straight hair all those years felt a little left out, but looking back at pictures, they knew the truth even back then: the perm was bad. It was an insanely bad look.
Later some girls started to wear the Dorothy Hamill wedge and some wore the layers of Farrah. We dreamed of Farrah. Dorothy was perky and athletic–and we liked those qualities, but Farrah . . .
. . . we were in love with her just like the boys. Our head of hair was NOTHING like Farrah’s, but we tried our best. Almost everybody took a picture of Farrah to their stylist and said, “This is how I want to look.” Those poor, damn stylists. They took one look at the crumpled picture in your sweaty little hand and wanted to scream, “There is no way in hell that you’re ever gonna look like her.” But they never said it. They just smiled and started snipping and highlighting and blowing and brushing hoping to God that a miracle would occur along the way.
Sometimes it’s the things that people say about your hair that make you think twice. We’ve worn our hair in the Sarah Palin long before anybody heard of Sarah . . .
It’s a quick and easy ‘do.’ It gives you a little poof up top if you feel better about yourself with a poof. And for some reason we feel better with a poof. Whenever you’re in doubt about anything, it’s helpful to blame your mother: so it must be Joyce’s fault. We’ve tried to give up the poof and we just can’t seem to do it. We’ve been asked twice in the last month whether we have a tumor or use a Bumpits. This has made us feel badly about ourselves. Someone told us the poof was our signature look. Someone else said, “You always have your hair like that.”
So here we sit pondering our relationship with our hair. And the poof. And our dependence on the poof . . . our love for the poof. We’ve pondered this for a month. Maybe a wig is the answer. Or a raspberry beret–the kind you find in a second-hand store. No, that’s way too flat.