I’m not bad at it as in I forget to wash it or I have
debilitating dandruff. I am bad at in in two ways: 1.) a total inability to make
it look nice, and 2.) a number of hair-related mishaps I’ve dealt with over the
past couple of decades.
Let me begin with my total hair-styling ineptitude. I have
never, EVER, in all my life, been able to do anything with my hair. I can brush
it, and I can straighten it, but that’s about where it ends. On the bright
side, this made me immune to embarrassing hair trends: I never had stacked
bangs, nor could I clip my hair back with zillions of plastic clips shaped like
butterflies (remember those?). My friends, I couldn’t even master the ponytail:
in elementary school, the only respectable ponytail was one in which your hair
was completely slicked back and smooth. It better not have any bumps in it, or
you’d have to start over. I couldn’t do it.
I could barely master these bangs, for crying out loud. |
Armed with the knowledge of my lack of hair skills, I chose
my haircuts accordingly. While I longed for the gorgeous layered haircuts that
were big in the mid-90s, I knew that to achieve such style, I’d be forced to
spend time with the curling iron. No thanks.
When I was a groomsmaid in my friend Bob’s wedding, we were
given free reign with our hair. This pleased most of the groomsmaids – no
salon, hooray! – but it struck fear in my hair-stylingly challenged heart. This
was my dear friend’s wedding, so I had to look presentable. I toyed with the
idea of forking out the money for an up-do at a salon, but let me tell you,
those don’t come cheap. I ended up getting up extra early, curling my hair, and
hairspraying it into submission. And how did it turn out? I’d rate it a “meh.”
Meh. |
I don’t think it’s all me: my hair is a bit on the
uncooperative side. My hair has an issue for every season, so there’s really no
reprieve. Springtime rains bring an inordinate amount of frizz. My hair is very
thick, so summer heat is pretty rough – and you can totally forget about me
making any sort of effort with hair tools that use heat (aka, all of them).
Fall, while it is my favorite season, dulls whatever color the sun gave my hair
during the summer (more on that later). Wintertime is the absolute worst. I am
an excellent conductor of static electricity, so I spent November through March
with my hair standing on end. If I had a dollar every time I threatened to cut
it all off… well, I’d probably have a lot of dollars.
My nonexistent hair-styling prowess is one thing, but I also
have a handful of hair catastrophes under my belt. The first disaster I can
remember was in first grade: there was an outbreak of lice, and I was one of
the unfortunate victims. I had to take half a day off and get my hair washed
with lice shampoo, and I was MAD: not mad because of the lice or the nasty
shampoo, but because I had to miss half a day of school. It was toward the end
of the school year, and I was on my way to perfect attendance (you got a
medal!), but then the lice ruined it all.
The next hair failure was in the seventh grade. I was twelve,
and I had braces and round John Lennon glasses: a grade-A nerd. And what did I
decide to do? I made it worse with a perm. Glasses plus braces plus crazy hair:
it was a dork triumvirate.
I had always wanted curly hair (I was always jealous of my friend
Sarah’s curly hair), and a perm seemed like a great idea. I could forever bid
farewell to the curling iron, as I’d simply roll out of bed in the morning,
perfectly coiffed – or so went my perm fantasy.
I have the incredible good fortune to have an aunt (Barb) who
is a stylist, and she agreed to give me a perm. Barb executed said perm
perfectly, but after all the chemicals had been rinsed out of my hair, I found
out that my perm expectations differed vastly from what a real perm actually
looked like.
My perm days were ridiculous. I had to mousse the bejeezus
out of it every morning for fear of spending the rest of the day with a fuzzy
mess of a perm. Due to the sheer volume of mousse it took to keep my hair under
control, my hair was crunchy and so moussed that it looked wet. All day. If I
had stood too close to a flame, we may have had another Michael Jackson Pepsi
commercial on our hands. Too soon?
AHH! |
Growing out my perm was quite an ordeal, too. I knew that
once was enough, so there would be no touch-ups for me. I think it took close
to a year for the perm to have completely exited my tresses, and if you’ve ever
tried to grow out a perm, you know what a pain it is.
I managed to stay mostly unscathed throughout the rest high
school and most of college, mostly because I placed my hair trust in Barb.
Thanks to her, I had nice hair for two proms and a wedding, not to mention some
enviable lowlights and low-maintenance layers. Sadly, all good things must end.
Horrible. Just horrible. |
It was the spring semester of my junior year of college, and
I was ready for a change. I headed to downtown Morris (fancy, I know –
especially considering downtown Morris doesn’t hold much more than a skeezy
mall and a few antique stores). I wanted something above my shoulders with a
few layers, pretty simple. My stylist was a totally apathetic, extremely
pregnant woman who gave the impression that she’d really rather be somewhere
else. She gave me a quick haircut and sent me on my way, not showing me the
back of my hair or asking if I liked what I saw. I didn’t think much of it…
until I got home and my roommate asked, in a certain “how do I tell her that
her haircut sucks?” kind of voice, what I thought of my haircut. Until then, I
hadn’t examined the back: it appeared as if she had cut a big chunk out, but
not bothered to fix it. The back of my hair looked like a fishtail.
GREAT.
By this time, all the Morris salons had closed. My only hope
was to drive to Alexandria: at 45 miles away, it was the nearest city with any
hope of a salon that stayed open past 5 o’clock. I high-tailed it to make it
there by 8.30, only to find that all the salons had closed early (even though
they had told me 9pm on the phone! Curses!). Defeated, I went home, slept on my
fishtail hair, and got up early the next day to get a haircut at a different
Morris salon. When I got there, the stylist said, “What HAPPENED to you?!” Thankfully,
she was able to fix it – and my hair has never been shorter.
My latest and greatest hair fiasco was only about two years
ago. It was October, and I was living in the cities. James had come to visit me
for the weekend, and I had the bright idea to dye my hair. The ends of my hair
were still sunshiny blond from the summer, while my roots were more ashy. I had
never dyed my hair before, but how hard could it be? People did box dyes all
the time! All I wanted to do was even out the color, which I assumed would be
easy as pie.
Don't ask about the faces. It was finals week. |
I don’t know if it was the cheap hair dye or if I’m just an
idiot, but my hair didn’t turn out as planned. Specifically: it was orange.
Nasty, brassy, “obviously I just dyed my hair and dyed it poorly” orange. Luckily,
it was a Friday night, so I didn’t have to go to work the next day with my hair
in this horrible state. Unluckily, it was a Friday night, so almost all of the
hair salons we frantically called were booked up for the next day. Mercifully,
we found one that wasn’t: Fantastic Sam’s.
I woke up the next morning, wondering if I had dreamed that
I’d dyed my hair. Looking in the mirror told me that it was no dream, so off to
Fantastic Sam’s we went. When I walked in the door, the colorist knew
immediately what I had done: “I see this all the time” were her exact words. I
picked out a shade that looked mostly like my natural color, and she dyed away.
It came out a little darker than normal and was a definite blow to the old
pocketbook, but nobody noticed that my hair was a different color: a success in
my book.
Since then, I’ve been able to avoid any major catastrophes,
mostly because I’ve avoided any sort of major hair change. I’m getting married
in less than seven months, so I’m more or less leaving my hair alone until
then: therefore, it’s longer than it’s ever been and driving me nuts. I’ve
noticed that quite a few brides chop off their hair post-wedding, so I may have
another hair story to tell this summer. Wish me luck in the meantime.
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