Hair

I have this fantasy where I pretend my hair is good again. When I was young, I had really nice hair. By young here, I mean anything under the age of 40. I'm not talking about that perfect childhood hair that our grandmother said we had, but the hair I had when I was 39.

It was lustrous without being hard to handle. I understood it. After years of struggle, I knew what to do to make it be good and I was happy with it. We lived together nicely. We had an agreement dammit. It would behave and I would do what it wanted. I understood it kinks its oddly placed waves.

The last couple of years, my hair has let down its end of the bargain. First it began to thin on top. I had to comb my hair differently than I had all the rest of my days. Lately, I have become allergic to every shampoo they now make, I am reduced to baby shampoo, my hair has become straw like. Distinctly fuzzy. If Fuzzy Wuzzy was a hair it would be mine.

I am reduced to using hot rollers in my hair before work each day. Me, who never needed to do a darn thing. You can hate me now, it's OK, it was part of my agreement with my hair. I didn't bug it. It didn't bug me. The style was unfussy and usually layered or tucked behind an ear. All in all, not demanding, more or less carefree. I never spent time on my hair.

These days, the fuzz defeats whatever good is left in my hair. If I don't use the hot rollers, the fuzz goes wild. By the time I get to town, it has flared up and out so the ends are above my ears. It is cartoon hair. My hair could span doorways. It does bouffant without any of the usual things you need to do to make hair bouffant. Even with hot rollers, by the time I get done with my work day, it has grown and pouffed out to a horrifying degree. I fear I may yet be driven to putting rollers in my hair at night. I may yet wear my rollers to church (which if you were a prairie girl from small farming community you would understand this perfectly. It is a sin of the highest order).

Last night I thought I was dreaming about webs, but I woke up with fuzzy dry hair all over my face and my eyes, and in my mouth.

This is ridiculous. I'm getting a good haircut today to see if I can rid myself of this pile of straw. If I can't rid myself of this pile of straw, If I am to be permanently allied with this pile of straw, I am determined to find a decent way to deal with it.

So if you happen to be in a salon in town today, and a crazed looking woman with wild hair comes in and gets a little strange because she has to wait, consider giving up your chair. I cannot vouch for anybody's safety.