The history of my hair is pretty much the history of hair in the 70’s. The Pixie, the Pageboy, the Little Orphan Annie (dude, that was a bad idea), the Shag, the Pixie again, the Bob, the Girl Mullet, the Body Wave, the Wings, the Faux Farrah…I tried them all. And none of them really worked. I never had shiny ringlets or Cindy Brady pigtails. I pretty much always had a tangled mess, or at least, a not-stylish mess.
When I was old enough to take care of my hair myself, it turned into a litany of 80’s styles, the French Braids, the French Braids with headband, the ring of curling iron curls around the face (Do you know that one? It was deeply unattractive.) There was the asymmetric New Romantic Cut, the Rat Tail, the long curly perm that one hoped would turn into gentle waves, the spiral perm, the Pixie (again-it made a comeback!)- as did the Bob.
Then there were the colors. The brassy “Sun-In” orange, the burgundy, the crayon red, the red streaks that sat in the sun too long and turned pink, (just in time for freshman year in college), the blonde, the blonde streaks, the strawberry blonde, back to red, then eggplant, then back to red, red with blonde, red with purple, brown, brown with pink and the one time only, never to be done again, brown with blue which quickly faded to green, thus causing east-coasters to ask if I was a “really big Eagles fan”.
My hair has always been the bane of my existence. And my mother’s, for that matter. It was never long or glossy or luxurious. It was never where it was supposed to be and it never did what it was supposed to do. It frustrated me and made me cry and I can’t imagine that it ever looked…nice.
It’s very straight. Very. And very fine. And thin. I don’t know the actual circumferece of a shaft of my hair but I have to believe it’s about half of yours. Because a ton of my hair is still a lot less then a ton of most other peoples. Not an actual TON. A ton is a ton. A figurative ton. A lot. A bunch. Like the bunch of hair that was lopped off my head last night. All in one shot. About 12 or 14 inches. It’s hard to say because it was lopped off in one big braid.
This is something I have been planning on for a while. Actually, more than a while. It’s been…more than two years. Not just the stylish haircut but also the donation of the hair left behind. I don’t know why I decided this would be something to do, but I did. And I did it. And now it’s done. In a way, I feel bad for someone who ends up with my hair now that I have confessed that it has given me trouble my whole life. But I also think that if I had lost my own hair due to some force other than choice, I would like to have the opportunity to…cover up sometimes.
I now have a stylish bob. Think Victoria Beckham (minus the really high heel and really fake implants). My husband called it “chic” (I didn’t even know he knew that word!). A co-worker deemed it a “10 out of 10”. And my morning routine is now about 15 minutes shorter. I don’t really know that I feel like I have done a “good thing”. I feel like I have done..a thing. But it’s done. I hope it maybe makes someone’s life just a little bit easier.