The Mane Event II

“I love your hair,” said the lady at the till.
“Where did you get it?”
“Pardon me?” I replied.
She said, “Oh, is it real? I am so sorry! It looks amazing!”
I laughed and said I got it from my mother.
She apologized again for being so personal.
I am taking the fact that my hair looked unreal as a compliment.
I am seeing the positive in that.
I was not having a particularly good hair day, in fact it was a little fuzzy and unruly for my liking, being the second day after a wash and all.
But I was honoured that someone had thought to comment on it, and liked it enough to think that it could not be natural.
And I think I have finally come to terms with my own hair.
It is a force of nature unto itself.
Unruly and thick if left to its own devices.
Smooth and manageable if electricity intervenes.
At the ripe old age of 59, closer now to 60, I have great hair that I can handle.
More or less.
There are days that I decide to let the inner wench out and not style it at all.
I encourage the ringlets and curls and cow licks and smooth them down with a concoction of hair oils.
But by the second day they become a tangled mess.
Unable to be tamed by a mere comb.
And to think I have waited for this moment all my life.
When my mother kept my hair short when I was a child, no doubt for ease of care as it was very curly even then, I would order wigs out of catalogues or make my own with Scotch tape and rubber bands.
I so longed to have long hair that I almost could not bear it.
When I turned 13, and was in high school (I was advanced a year in grade 3), I emphatically told my mother I was now in charge of my own hair.
She could no longer cut it, as I wanted to grow it.
And grow it I did.
My best friend’s brother used to call me “The Great Golden Bush In The Sky.”
It was that big.
Thankfully it was the 70’s and 80’s and so Big Hair was IN!
I still tried to tame it however.
Pink sponge rollers under the bonnet hair dryer for hours would give it some semblance of order.
Barrets were another option to keep it out of my eyes, especially after I unceremoniously cut my bangs to try to get that Farah Fawcett swept back look.
Wasn’t happening.
My bangs had a mind of their own and happily hung in two big clumps over my forehead.
It was a long time before they grew out.
In the meantime, barrets became my new best friend.
I even remember being teased as “Baretta Girl” at some point.
I was 21 years old before I actually went to the hairdresser again.
I was living in Montreal and decided I had to get a proper haircut if I wanted to live in such a stylish city.
So off to Vivien at La Coupe I went.
She cut some “V’s” into my tresses, and I have to say, I have never looked better.
Until now.
It was the thick of the ’80’s by that point and the bigger the better!
I made the most of it.
I would let it air dry and scrunch those curls and waves and ringlets and cow licks until the cows came home.
Big hair didn’t know what hit it.
It stayed long for at least another decade, through my return home to Ontario and back to college to study journalism
Even boyfriends would comment on how my hair looked like Zsa Zsa Gabor’s Night In Paris wig.
It wasn’t until I was in my 30’s that my job as an anchor and reporter at the Barrie TV station forced me to rethink my tresses.
How much time did I want – no – have – to spend on my hair.
That window was diminishing.
A long day and long commute left little time really.
So, off with the locks!
Over the next twenty years I went from short to long to long-ish to short-ish to where we are today.
A free spirit that really doesn’t have anywhere to be anymore on a daily basis.
I have the time.
I can let it air dry once again.
I can choose to smooth it out with electrical appliances.
I can put it up in a pony tail.
I can twist it with a clasp.
I have bangs now (bangs over Botox), inspired by the ever stylish Taylor Swift.
I like my hair these days.
The colour is still natural, and I thank God for that every day.
A deep Strawberry Blonde.
I am over the days of highlights and lowlights and Sun In and streaking.
Now Mother Nature can take her course.
I see a few spry grey hairs here and there.
And they are a welcome silvering to the gold, I say.
And so to answer the question, where did I get my hair?
I say, Thanks Mum!

Separator image .