“It looks like a helmet.”
“It’s the Zsa Zsa Gabor ‘Night In Paris’ wig”.
“It’s the great golden bush in the sky”.
Those are just some of the coinages my hair has prompted from people over the years..
People who are no longer boyfriends. Or husbands.
My brother even asked once, “Have you come to terms with your hair yet, Sis?”
As he had heard me on more than one occasion swearing and cursing at the difficulty of trying to tame the beast.
The beast that is my strawberry blonde dragon.
It has always been a contender. A force to be reckoned with.
Thicker than most, I was told by a hairdresser once that I had more “red” in my strands than blonde. Unruly red.
A mane that takes so long to dry, I often feel sorry for female hairdressers who just do not have the stamina to dry it with a hair dryer and round brush.
Male hairdressers seem to enjoy the workout. They see it as a challenge. And it always looks great.
One hairdresser told me once that by the time I was 70, my hair might finally be “thin” enough to be normal.
But I digress.
I have a love/hate relationship with my hair.
When it looks good, I love it!
But most days – I can’t come to terms with it.
When the “in look” is straight – I am curly.
Even when the “in look” is curly – I am wavy and cow-licky and unruly.
I have tried it short. I have tried it long. I have tried it in-between.
It is its own entity. Its own area code. And I have yet to find someone who loves it and appreciates it as much as I have to.
I do get the occasional compliment from women in public washrooms. Women who have straight, brown hair. We always want what we don’t have.
Even my own mother comments on it every time I see her. It’s too this. It’s too that. Do you like it that way?
My current hubby only glows about it after it has been straightened to within an inch of its life by a hairdresser.
But my hair is my crowning glory. Given to me by Mother Nature. A higher power. And so I should embrace it. Appreciate it. Love it. Give it the time it deserves to make it look good.
We are never happy with what God gives us, are we?
We always see the grass as greener on the other side of the fence.
But I should remember that some girls who have straight hair would like thick, curly locks.
And some who are brunette would rather be a natural blonde.
But it is so hard when you have “difficult” hair. Hair that doesn’t conform to the popular standards of the day. Hair that has its own mind. Does what it wants. Perhaps that’s a message?
I am not a “yes” woman. Never have and never will be. Perhaps that’s the “red” coming out in my strawberry blonde hair.
I am independent. Introverted. Stubborn and strong willed, to a degree. Determined.
I like to do what I want, when I want (although I am happy to accommodate the loved ones in my life, of course.)
So perhaps my hair is a symbol of my uniqueness. My individuality. The fact that there are so few others with similar hair. People who, in the past, have made me feel like not one of the popular kids, or part of the “in” crowd, or the “in” haircuts.
But I should still appreciate what I have. Before it’s too late.
And so, to my brother who asked once, “Have you come to terms with your hair yet, Sis?”, I say, “YES!”