I got my hair done today. That’s right, everyone, my fetching gold highlights are fake. Every six weeks or so I go to get the gray covered (yes, it’s noticeable), while I listen to the woes of my current hair genius. And oh my, the woes she has. But it’s worth it because she’s a genius. I love Christy. That’s why I’ve followed her to three different salons now. I even let her cut my hair when she was about eleven months pregnant and CRAZED. Because I love her.
Actually, like most things, it’s not about her, but all about me. I think my hair is my super power. When it’s right, I am invincible. As I was heading to my car after my appointment I flicked one strand over my shoulder and thought, bring it on, world. No more roots here, I can take you.
Not that I have great hair or anything. Sometimes my hair turns on me. I wake up, shower and struggle mightily to wrestle it into some sort of acceptable shape. But it defies me, snickering as it frizzes and falls and flips out all wrong. On those days I am wan. I glimpse my sad head in the car window and suppress the urge to apologize. It’s just pitiful.
So I buy the best products in an attempt to appease the mighty follicles. If something displeases them, I throw it away. With extreme prejudice. I pamper and cajole. Hey, if you’ve got a super power, it pays to treat it well. Don’t want it turning to the dark side.
Of course, I am anthropomorphizing a bit here. I shouldn’t do that. My hair just hates it.