I have a confession to make. I really miss my very short hair. I miss the style and the ease with which I was able to make it look nice. Wash, mousse and dry.
Because of this Michigan humidity, I’ve resorted to clipping my hair back in a matronly looking ‘do because no amount of washing, moussing or drying will create a look I can tolerate for most of the day. As soon as I’m home from work I pull everything back in a headband because I can’t stand another minute of having my bangs in my face.
As much as I hate my hair right now, I’m committed to nurturing its growth. I’ve gotten this far. I persevered through the almost-mullet and the feathered sides that made me look like I’d just stepped out of a ‘70s-era Aaron Spelling drama. I’ve invested in sponge rollers and actually thought about purchasing a curling iron because nothing says commitment to beauty more than accessories and appliances.
I once dated this guy who had a bit of a problem with alcohol. One night he told me he was going to study at the university library, which was actually code for “I’m going to get shit-faced and drive my car into someone’s front yard.” So while I was at home alone on a Friday night thinking I was with a guy who actually cared about his studies, he was taking a breathalyzer test and arranging restitution for a demolished mailbox and assorted yard gnomes.
This guy’s baggage was obvious to everyone but me, and people started saying I should dump him. I wouldn’t hear of it, though. I stuck with him, partly to spite those who said I should leave and partly because I had convinced myself he just needed a good girl like me to set him on the right path. I was going to be his angel of sobriety and was committed to sticking with him because, hell, my boyfriend got arrested. How much worse could it get? As it turns out, I was actually the girl who took too long to decide whether or not she wanted to sleep with him and he wasn’t all that committed to waiting for me.
So what does this sad, yet sadly familiar tale of woe have to do with my hair? My hair is now that drunk boyfriend who didn’t even give me a freaking card on my birthday. My hair is the thing that’s making this good girl look bad. My hair is the thing that reminds me some choices made with good intentions can yield bad results.
My hair will not dump me, though. If anything, I’ll cut it loose first. But I’m committed, like I said, because that’s just the kind of girl I am.
Comments on this entry are closed.