I was not gifted with great hair.
There’s an odd cowlick on the back of my head that makes it
nearly impossible to not have a Something-About-Mary-Moment every time I
wake up.
If I dare to go longer than a day between washings, it
resembles the greasy mop of a pubescent pre-teen.
The entire thickness of my tresses can be gathered into a
nickel-sized pony, creating size envy among exactly no one.
To its credit, post-pool air-drying does tend to result in
some pretty waves, but shower hair is an inconsistent limp tangle if not properly
coifed.
I’m also half-convinced it’s plotting an escape due to the
ungodly amount of it I find on the counters and floors of my bathroom.
On top of all that, it grows i n c r e d I b l y
slowly. One of the first things I wrote down on my 40 by forty list was to grow my
hair out. Even at the onset of this adventure, I knew I would need every possible
day to make headway in the direction I hoped to end up. More than that, I
needed to put it on the list to hold myself accountable so when the inevitable
hairbrained idea to simply chop it all off and start afresh attempted to lure me
to the dark side, I would remember that this never works in my favor.
Case in point:
Age 17:
(God bless the one who invented red-eye reduction so that those of us with light eyes didn't have to appear demon-esque for all of eternity.)
Age 19:
(This is quite possibly the worst photo of me ever but, what can I say? It was a dark time. Please feel free to shift your focus on my ever beautiful sis. Seriously. Please.)
Age 28:
All in all, I did pretty good resisting the urge, only
betraying the goal once last fall when I attempted bangs for the second time in
my adult life. The problem with bangs is they are a lot of work…and not nearly
as flattering on a rounded face with a couple (dozen) extra covid pounds.
Man, I didn’t know so many of ya’ll were faking it! Well-played.
Just as soon as covid-restrictions would allow, I took my split-ended
self to the black market salon to inquire about securing some assistance
for my troubled tress-situation. The stylist was very nice, in a you-don’t-come-here-very-often-do-you-sweetie
type of way. She raked through my hair, pulling it this way and that,
exposing the shock of gray that has taken up natural residence at the lower
parts of my cranium.
And then she broke the bad news.
Oh, she’d take my money alright (a couple hundred for the
extensions themselves and then one-fifty every 6-8 weeks to move said
extensions up!) but the results weren’t necessarily going to be great for someone like me
who’s hair is somehow both thin and fine.
Grumble-grumble.
I’m vain, but I’m also cheap.
So, I’m just gonna call it. Some could argue that I have an
entire month of potential hair-growth left, but let’s be honest, it’s not going
to make that big of a difference considering it’s taken me the better part of three
years just to reach sixteen inches.
And also, if by chance my follicles were reading this and
indeed staging a coup: I love every remaining hair on my head…please don’t
leave!
That was funny :) If I may say, you are quite beautiful, hair and all. Although, when first glancing through the pictures I did wonder who the guy was with your sister.
ReplyDelete