I hate my hair.  This is new for me.  I generally don’t really think about hair one way or the other.  It is an accessory that I wear on my head.  It is basically a hat.  I choose a style.  My stylist cuts it in that manner.  I wear it that way until I get sick of it and then I change it.  Length doesn’t matter.  Color doesn’t matter.  I change my hair on a regular basis.   About two  years ago my hair was platinum blond and about an inch long.  I had worn it that way for more than a year, and then I decided to grow it out.  I am still in the process of growing it out.  As I mentioned before, I hate it.

Why does growing your hair out make you (and your hair) crazy?  My hair is stick straight.  It is thick and fine…I know every stylist I have ever been to says “that is some fine thick hair you have!”  Yuk, yuk!!  Well, menopause has effed my hair up too.  My stick straight hair now has some really curly silver strands now.  I don’t know how to style curly hair.  Coloring it doesn’t matter…it’s still curly.   I tug and tug at it with a large round brush and eventually pull it smooth and as soon…I mean the very minute…I walk outside it frizzes up all over my head.   I walk around looking like I got a half-assed perm.  Blank out my eyes and give me a mutt and hello Orphan Annie.

I asked my hubby what he thought about my hair.  Not in those words, of course.  That wouldn’t go along with the fun that is spousal conversation.  First I asked him about losing my bangs.  I’ve had bangs since junior high, but now they are always sweaty and in my way and I wondered what he thought about the fact that quite often they are pinned off my forehead or pulled back by a head band.  “Honey, what do you think about me growing my bangs out?”  He looked up at me like it was the first time he had ever seen me.  “I don’t know.”  “You have seen me pretty much every day for the last eighteen years.  For seventeen and a half of those I’ve  had bangs.  I have been pulling them back because they’re  driving me crazy.  Didn’t you even notice?”  Here is the thing that I couldn’t believe.  This man who has told me at least once a day for all those years how pretty, cute, blah, blah, blah you fill in the blank, I am actually said to me…”I really don’t pay attention to that stuff.”  That explains why on those pajama days when I drag myself out of bed, when my hair is nappy and mascara rings my eyes in a manner only a raccoon could love, he says, “you’re so pretty.”  I’ve always known that I am not pretty on those days.  I just didn’t know he wasn’t even looking.  I wouldn’t have minded his opinion.  I did mind finding out that he didn’t even notice.  I went to a more critical source, my daughter.  “I kind of hate my hair right now.  I can’t do anything with it.  It is always frizzy and the gray is becoming dominant.  What am I going to do?”  Miss Cuttothechase barely looked up from her salad and said, “you’re growing it out.  It’s a pain.”  I know if I truly want to grow it out I have to move through this phase.  However, at this point I am wondering why I thought I wanted to grow it out.

We are attending a wedding this weekend, and I am not happy about dragging this head of mess all the way to Texas.  Without a constant mirror I can’t tell what the hell this hair looks like.  I put more product in it than I ever have in my life.  I shampoo and condition it daily.  Weekly I put an intensive conditioner in it.  Before I dry it, I use a spray for protection from the heat of the hair dryer.  I pull the absolute thunder out of it so that it is straight and shiny.  I lock that down with some anti-frizz lotion and spray the blue fool out of it.  I give it an inspection and glue down any wayward hairs and head for the door.  Thirty seconds later I look like a homeless person.  I am quite vain.  I don’t mind that I am not gorgeous.  I will never be a raving beauty.  I am short and heavy.  But put some make-up on me and give me a good ‘do and baby I’m ready to go to China town.   I clean up pretty good for a hillbilly.  Lipstick and pigs…right?  Luckily, the wedding we are attending is on the hubby’s side of the family.  These people see me once in never.  The last time I saw his aunt was when we buried his mother, I believe.  So it is quite possible they will  think I am really sick or recovering from some deadly strain of fuzz head and frump butt disease.  Which I am.  Does anyone know where I can get an immunization for that? 

So here’s the deal.  This is how I am planning to deal with this crappy head of nappy.  I am going to pack every hair product I own.  I am taking my own Ionic hair dryer (which supposedly decreases frizz…and if it does and my hair might look worse if I didn’t use it that is just a chance I can’t take), my lotions and potions, hair pins, elastics, and a great big barrette.  I will attempt once more to smooth my stressed tresses and when all else fails (and I am almost certain it will) I will take my favorite boar’s hair brush and brush my hair to the sleekest, shiniest I can get it.  I will pull it back, smoothing and spraying it until i could survive a direct hit from a meteor,  and put it in a pony tail.  Oh yeah, that was why I was growing it out in the first place…so I could pull it back into a ponytail.