I Fought the Law(nmower) and the Law(nmower) Won
My hair is a disaster zone. A disaster zone of oddly-shaped munter curls trying to flee in every conceivable direction, but tethered to something they hate and are continually trying to escape. I walked into work this morning and said to Hannah,
"Tell me the truth."
(explanatory note - you’ll be hearing a lot about Hannah because she’s practically the only person I talk to all day long - yeah, the social life’s really rockin’ right now - and because finally, I have a kindred hair spirit. Not only have we got almost exactly the same hair, she understands as no-one else ever does, just how much the state of your hair is tied to your self-esteem.)
She looked at me sadly and said, “Oh Prue. Perhaps you could… no, nothing’s going to fix that.”
We are two of (I’m convinced) a reasonably small number of women worldwide who simply cannot wash their hair, flick it around a bit and walk out the door. In order to look any good, ours need rollers, clips, brushes, serum, hairdryer, ceramic straighteners and finishing balm to get it near-perfect. Perfection, you understand, is hardly ever attained. I only remember two instances of perfection in the last calendar year. And roughly every two months your serum and/or shampoo stops working and spontaneously tangles your hair into a giant mushroom cloud rather than smoothing it and you have to switch, which throws everything out until your hair gets used to it.
When I’ve spent the 30 minutes necessary to get my hair looking great in the mornings, I have much more confidence. I stand up straight, look people in the eye and feel OK about wearing my high heels. When I haven’t had time or my hair needs a rest from all the serums and heat and tugging about, I slouch, mumble and only wear flats. I remember once going on a leader’s retreat at University and coming downstairs with my hair wet and half-tied up. One of the guys actually JUMPED when he saw me, and said “Wow… you look so… different… I mean… wow.” (These were not good wows. These were ‘I had been seeing this woman as the mother of my children but now that I’ve seen this I’m reconsidering…’ wows.) Every nickname I ever had at school (Mad Professor was the one that stuck the longest and I'll never disclose the others) had to do with the state of my hair. I’ve pretty much abandoned any attempt at real grooming, because it’s just never going to happen.
I’m getting it cut tomorrow, and I’m seriously contemplating drastic measures.
"Tell me the truth."
(explanatory note - you’ll be hearing a lot about Hannah because she’s practically the only person I talk to all day long - yeah, the social life’s really rockin’ right now - and because finally, I have a kindred hair spirit. Not only have we got almost exactly the same hair, she understands as no-one else ever does, just how much the state of your hair is tied to your self-esteem.)
She looked at me sadly and said, “Oh Prue. Perhaps you could… no, nothing’s going to fix that.”
We are two of (I’m convinced) a reasonably small number of women worldwide who simply cannot wash their hair, flick it around a bit and walk out the door. In order to look any good, ours need rollers, clips, brushes, serum, hairdryer, ceramic straighteners and finishing balm to get it near-perfect. Perfection, you understand, is hardly ever attained. I only remember two instances of perfection in the last calendar year. And roughly every two months your serum and/or shampoo stops working and spontaneously tangles your hair into a giant mushroom cloud rather than smoothing it and you have to switch, which throws everything out until your hair gets used to it.
When I’ve spent the 30 minutes necessary to get my hair looking great in the mornings, I have much more confidence. I stand up straight, look people in the eye and feel OK about wearing my high heels. When I haven’t had time or my hair needs a rest from all the serums and heat and tugging about, I slouch, mumble and only wear flats. I remember once going on a leader’s retreat at University and coming downstairs with my hair wet and half-tied up. One of the guys actually JUMPED when he saw me, and said “Wow… you look so… different… I mean… wow.” (These were not good wows. These were ‘I had been seeing this woman as the mother of my children but now that I’ve seen this I’m reconsidering…’ wows.) Every nickname I ever had at school (Mad Professor was the one that stuck the longest and I'll never disclose the others) had to do with the state of my hair. I’ve pretty much abandoned any attempt at real grooming, because it’s just never going to happen.
I’m getting it cut tomorrow, and I’m seriously contemplating drastic measures.