Bait and Switch
I’ve got a gripe. I left the hair salon with one “style”, and sometime between then and the first at home wash/dry/style, my cool, almost J. Love Hewitt thing was switched with some middle income, middle aged, wanna-be hip mousy brown bad-banged hair, with seemingly wopped layers. I. am. too. old. for. this. Bad change is not good for me. I don’t have enough Wellbutrin to counter the ill effects of what a 6 month long bad hair day will do to me. And yet, I saw it. I saw the good hair. I watched it magically appear on my head, and I stared in amazement at my superb-haired self. Where is it? Who has it? What did I do to make it leave me?
I’ve been good to my hair. We have has some tumultuous times, my hair and I, but they were short lived. I didn’t even give her more than a trim till I was 12 (but, oh, there were those at home Tony perms my mom tied us down for, that could be causing some residual resentment). At 12, I did my damndest to take us into the 80s, figuring we’d both appreciate some big wings, a professional perm and 2 hours of hot rolling each and every morning, 7 days a blasted week. Up until then, I’d only given my hair pony tails, and side barretts, and occasional french braids. Except when we were Pippy Longstocking for Halloween, and then mom put pipe cleaners in the braids so they’d stick up. We got lots of attention for that. And oh, when I was obsessed with Princess Leia, when the first episode came out, and I convinced mom to put some of those big buns on the sides of my head. We needed to grow up a bit. We stepped in to big hair, together. And although the result was, well, less than, like, gnarly, we held out for a year or so before retreating to the ever popular, totally traditional, tragically classic bob. This was a good look for us, for years. And years. And well, years. We played with the length, we toyed with bang thickness. But all in all, I sported that triangle for um, 13 years. Hey, when I find something that works, I don’t like to mess with it (and you can’t blame me, blame it on the genes - mom still sports the same shade of Estee’ Lauder lipstick, Starlit Pink, discovered in 1983 0r 4). And hair…well, hair is hair. One thing that can hold the fate of the day, the week, the month, yay, even the universe, no matter what else is going on. Forget that zit. Not noticable with good hair. Odd outfit? Spittle on your lapel? Screaming baby on your shoulder? Can’t see it…you’ve got good hair.
So, except for one horrible accident, when I thought I could look like Jeannine Turner from Northern Exposure, which is too painful to discuss, my hair and I have been fairly unadventurous. Until 1998, when my own husband said I had to leave the 80s behind, and let the man just give me a style. What style? The Rachel. The Rachel. Which was meant for Rachel. Not for the Captain. Her hair? Wavy, thick. My hair? Not so much. Good hair, but not thick and wavy hair. More like straight, fine, medium thick hair. And I was pregnant with our second child, so that means, round face. I think this guy was in cahoots with the sort of evil men who created high heels, underwire bras, and panty hose. Because, yes, it looked great leaving the salon. But afterwards? Nightmare. Total nightmare. I couldn’t dry out, roll, spray and fix that do every morning while retching over the toilet. No way. More than ever, I needed a simple, plain thing. No layers. No flippy-flirty-upside down thingy. Hard to flirt when you’re yarfing anyway. But we muddled through, and over the next 2 years or so, went long. Almost no layers. No bangs. Simple. Which I’ve had some varying degree of since 1999, occasionally with highlights, until three days ago. Three days ago, I went stupid again. Do I have no brain? It seemed simple enough. Really. An inch or two off, some layers, and some bang. I even like the bang. I think. But the rest of my hair is rebelling like I got a spiral! But flatter.
What do they do there to make you think the hairstyle will actually work? To make us thank them? Even tip them? To feel fabulous walking out, only to wash it, and give an attempt ourselves, and (I’m shrieking here) what the hell? Whaaaa happened? Somebody tell me what I’m supposed to do with hair that is good only in one place, the salon, and no where else in my life! Aaarrrrrghhhhh!
