As a child, I never wanted for hair. I came bellowing out of the womb with enough on my ginormous head (see first blog post) to make all of the wigs for Elton John’s concerts. It grew and grew and was always very lush and plush. Extraordinarily thick, bodacious, and wavy it was – but never kinky or curly. I was the envy of most of my friends who had greasy, stringy, can’t-do-a-thing-with, limp hair. They would all go and spend big bucks on the ever-popular ‘80’s perms, only to have their hair be flat as a pancake by the following week. They had to wash their hair every single day lest they go around looking like they just fell into an oil slick. All the while, I only had to wash my hair every second or third day. Hair stylists told me to wash less frequently so as not to dry my hair out too much and I was more than happy to oblige. Especially since it took three flippin’ hours (give or take a few minutes) to blow dry my copious coif.
Not only is my hair bizarrely thick, but each hair strand itself is very robust (seriously – under a microscope, the strands each look like a tree trunk from the Redwood Forest). To make matters worse, somewhere around the age of 25, I awoke a curly-corkscrewed-frizzy-funky mess. Believe me, I thought I was being punked in that maybe somebody slipped into my bedroom in the middle of the night, rolled 1000 tiny rollers (for my mop it would’ve taken that many easily), left them on for a couple hours, then took them out right before I woke. At least that’s how it seemed in my fantastical mind anyhow. All kidding aside, my hair on a good day (which happened maybe twice) looked like Little Orphan Annie. On a bad day (most days), I looked like the Bride of Frankenstein stuck her whole body into a light socket, then got struck by lightening, then sat smack dab in the center of the tornado that blew through during the storm. All I know, is that somehow, some way my hair was a hot mess (minus the hot) and I set out to do something about it (and no, I did not shave it all off like I did my eyebrows – see old blogs).
I was much older and wiser (shut up), and having learned from the shaved eyebrows of 1984, I knew I could not react on impulse. Which, unfortunately, is in my nature and a damn hard habit to break (and when I don’t get a friggin’ trophy or prize for making non-impulsive decisions – makes it virtually impossible). Firstly, I went to the salon and spent a week’s pay to have it flatteringly cut (the stylist had to use garden shears) and professionally straightened. All for shit I tell you! Barely a week later, my mane was back to its frenetic ways. I could be wrong (often, but rarely – I’m not sure) but it’s quite possible that it had gotten worse (probably rebelling against trying to be tamed – I know someone like that). I went out and spent more money than I had (or care to remember) on lotions, potions, gels and creams (for my hair, sicko) to try to get a grip on my unruled mop. Every elixir promised to be the one and none delivered (not even close). I even did something I almost never do – I read the directions – thinking maybe I was doing something wrong (rare occurrence) on the lying-luxurious-hair-false-hope bottles of bunk. I was only left with half-used bottles of shit-is-worth-more shit and more-than-ever morbidly fucked-up hair (and people wonder why I have trust issues)!
Over the years and the many trials and tribulations my hair and I have endured, we have reached a mutual agreement. I have to give it the proper attention it deserves by washing, rinsing, repeating, conditioning, and deep conditioning. No rough towel drying (splits the ends), my hair must be delicately swaddled into a turban for approximately 20 minutes before the next crucial steps. Those steps call for brushing it ever so lovingly (with Michael Buble songs playing softly in the background), while pulling ever so gently, while blow drying it ever so slowly (painstaking, but so worth it).
After that production (believe me – it is), I pull out the big gun – one I cannot live without (lets just say if I was stranded on a deserted island – this would be the one thing I would take). My straightening iron is my tool of self-confidence, the one that keeps me from looking like Medusa (at least the hair part). This is not just any iron either – it is salon quality. It reaches a skin-scarring (ask me to show you my scars – I’ll show you) 500 degrees. It scorches everything in its path, but a few (hundred) barely noticeable (thanks to the skin grafts) burns are so worth all that bad boy has given me. It gives me the non-frizzy, non-curly, non-fucked-up hair I so desire (and deserve, dammit).
The only things I have to be careful of are swimming and getting caught in rain storms. I love to swim, but I must be able to afford the couple hours afterwards required to wrangle my coif back into a civilized state. Also, God forbid I get caught in a rainstorm and cannot access the proper tools, then almost immediately my hair (on my head) starts to air dry into pubic hair gone wild. I have been the butt (stop snorting) of many jokes due to this, so I try to plan accordingly (like never leaving the house if there is any chance of rain).
They say your hair is an extension of who you are, so I guess it is only fitting that my true hair identity is unruly, rebellious, untamed, and fucked-up. If that’s the case, then I’m happy. After all, at least I’m not bald…because then I’d be nothing…
