Occasionally, fate hands me an ace. This week I felt like I got a handful of aces. My hair, the bane of my existence, is behaving itself. I guess it is the universe's way of paying me back for making me bald during chemo. You would think that after going through that life changing experience, I would just be grateful every day for having hair, but no, it turns out my vanity was just on vacation.
Every morning since I was fourteen, there has been a battle between me and my hair, waged in front of the bathroom mirror. The battle lasts about fifteen minutes. From the other side of the bathroom door can be heard a cacophony of yelling, cursing, grunting, the blaring of the blow dryer, and the clamor of combs, brushes, and containers of hair products being thrown around. After the battle, I emerge from the bathroom, either victorious, or bloodied. The outcome of this battle has a serious impact on the quality of the rest of the day, both for me and for the people around me. Some women blame their bad moods on hormones, my bad moods come from hair moans. That's a tribute to my dad who loved a good pun and had great hair.
I have an ongoing debate with my hair stylist. She insists there is no such thing as a no maintenance hair cut. I am still in pursuit of one. I have had short hair, long hair, no hair, and everything in between. I have had symmetrical dos, dos to the side, bangs and no bangs. In high school I spent at least half my waking hours trying to get long straight hair parted in the middle. See 1971 senior yearbook picture. Embarrassingly bad photo with someone else's name under it (that was a blessing), but the hair is long, relatively straight, and parted in the middle. I ironed it, set it on orange juice cans, (empty ones, the weight of full ones would have broken my neck), and used a whole tube of Dippity Doo to get it that way. It was the crowning achievement of my high school years. The other half of my waking hours in high school were spent either avoiding high school or writing long, eloquent term papers meant to salvage the grades damaged by all the time spent on hair battles and avoiding high school. I developed a permanent dent in the middle of my forehead from those giant curlers with the plastic pins stuck through them, the pins wedged against my scalp so I could sleep, perched high above my pillow like a poltergeist.
Once I found a way to make a living and entered the adult hair world, I at least had some money to throw at the battle. I have found that a good stylist can do better than a wait in line till your name is called stylist. I have found that going back to the same person so they can have another crack at it helps too. As an adult, you might think added maturity would console the I hate my hair blues, but no. While other people were getting on with their lives, my secret, shame filled battle continued. I went through the wear a bandana so it covers most of your hair, starting low on the forehead phase. That was great until being a cute little hippie girl wasn't cute anymore. Bret Michaels is apparently as yet unaware that this look is no longer cute. The hair emerged once again, this time starting to turn gray, in my twenties! This was adding insult to injury, but I was not ready to throw in the towel yet, unless they were towels stained with hair dye that is.
It was at this time I entered into what I call the "what the hell, let's see what happens if I let it go curly" phase. Everyone else was getting poodle perms, so at least this plan had a chance of succeeding. It actually lasted quite a while. I continued to rack up the hair care bills, justifying them by being discontented with the rest of my appearance. It is easier to face a husband who wants to know where all the money went if you are crying about how big your nose is. It costs a lot to take naturally curly hair and turn it into a hairdo that is both curly and attractive. Women tend to have a better understanding of this principle than men do.
I made it through the 80s and into the 90s, continuing the daily battle, thankfully more often than not exiting the bathroom triumphant, thanks to Madonna and Olivia Newton John. Then, wouldn't you know it, straight hair would make a comeback. Damn. Not wanting to be one of those women who has hair that dates her like carbon dating dates a relic, I moved forward with courage. And cut off most of my hair. If I wanted to keep the routine to fifteen minutes in the morning, I was going to need less of it to deal with. I was not ready to give up yet. I cut my hair short, gelled it, and set the hairdryer on high, blasting my hair back like it had been in a wind tunnel, short, and most importantly, straight.
While other mothers were baking cookies and getting ahead in their careers, the battle waged on with my hair. Finally, when my daughter got old enough, at least there was the comfort of having a second voice in the morning in the bathroom that shared a wall with my own, cursing and singeing with curling irons and hot curlers and hair straighteners. That's singeing, as in burning, not singing as in oh isn't this fun. My daughter, alas, had inherited "the hair". As an adult, she has, as much as one can, made peace with "the hair", embracing it like a normal person. I, on the other hand, have struggled on.
For the chemo phase of my battle of the strands, I refer you to My Winter In Flannel and Baby Curls. What a whiner. First she hates her hair, then she hates losing her hair. Make up your mind woman. Well, the fact of the matter is, I am glad to have my hair back, and actually my post chemo hair is much nicer. Finally, decent hair. I knew ordinary chemicals weren't enough, although I had given them every chance to succeed. You can imagine my satisfaction this week, when finally, after 41 years, (14+41=55) I blew my hair dry and it fell into place. I'll call it the accidental hairdo. And I didn't pay a penny for it. Maybe a little gift from above is what it is. Whatever it is, I'll take it, and pray that it lasts.
© M.E. Rollins
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