Lexi stuck one of her little brother’s big toy gizmos in her long hair and it won’t come out. She doesn’t know why she did it, but then, when it comes to hair, we women often wonder why we did it.
The night before my sister Polly’s son got married, she had a friend put a color rinse on her white hair. Her hair turned the color of an apricot and it wouldn’t come out. All the wedding photos feature Polly looking like a bowl of ripe fruit. These family photos are ‘forever.’
When Polly was 40, with the same white hair, she asked her husband to give her a perm. You probably know how that worked out?
I hadn’t been warned about this and when I saw her the next day I almost fell down the steps at our mother’s house. Polly had an Old Lady Poodle Perm. She was a shocking site as The Look had aged her 30-35 years! We had a preview of her Old Ladyhood. I laughed so hard my guts hurt for days.
But, let’s be fair and tell you about my hair mishaps. They started with I was 15.
One evening I came to the dinner table with my hair dyed red. My father yelled and slammed his fist onto our conference sized dinner table.
“Margaret!” he yelled at my mother. “She looks like a godamn slut!”
How was I to know his mother had dyed her hair red when it ‘wasn’t done’ and had some other ‘slutty’ adventures?
My mother immediately took me out to the wash room, dumped my head in a concrete sink and washed my hair vigorously with Tide detergent. A number of times. It didn’t remove the red but I did have hair like dried hay until it finally grew out.
After that experience, you couldn’t stop me. I bleached my hair blonde and it went green.
I dyed it red, again. And then a dark plum purple color when purple hadn’t been invented yet.
Easter egg dye was good but that shocking pink color took months to work itself out.
My father raged.
When I went off to college I went into a positively dying frenzy.
One terrible morning I had just dyed my hair and was washing it in the bathroom sink. Suddenly, I felt my hair blow up in my hands. I slowly raised my head and looked in the mirror. Yikes. I was Bozo the Clown, I was Daffy Duck, I was a Monster. My entire head of hair had exploded and expanded. There was only one thing to do. I cut it all off and called it a Pixie Cut, but you need more hair then fuzz for a Pixie Cut.
Walking to my college classes the next day, there were 2 fellows trailing behind me. I was wearing a red and white polka dot culotte outfit that I had sewn. I was feeling pretty cute about my sexy little self when I heard one of the boys say about me, “Wow. That’s really cute. But…what is it?”
What is the definition of dumb?
I kept dying my hair.
When I was in my early 40’s and had the sexiest, handsomest boy friend in town, I had a new fellow at the local hair salon cut and dye my hair. When the deed was done and I was unveiled, the entire Salon went silent.
My hair was dog shit brown and the short hair cut made me look like a long green onion. The word ‘ugly’ is too mild.
I slunk home, sat on the stairs and waited for my handsome boyfriend to show up. When ‘R’ opened the door, looked up and saw me sitting on the stairs, he fell against the wall. In 2 seconds he had me out in the kitchen with my hair in the sink while he scrubbed my hair with dish soap. Deja vu. And, it didn’t work.
When my daughter Summer, was in her early teens and most embarrassed by her mother, I decided to quit dying and cutting. I decided to grow my hair out.
As the hair grew out it was layered in bands of dyed brown, red, yellow and natural white.
While driving my 280 Z, I’d leave all the car windows open because we lived at the mild coast. My hair would blow all over my head, back and forth, up in the air, out the windows and into my face. It was a fresh, free feeling.
However, one time Summer was in the backseat while I was driving with my hair blowing. She suddenly shouted, ‘Mother! How can you let yourself look like that!’
Don’t know. It didn’t bother me.
But, then of course, I dyed my hair, again.
Looking back, I had beautiful, natural hair. It was light brown with copper highlights.
In my 30’s my hair started to go ‘platinum’ but of course, I felt I couldn’t have that. I was too young.
I continued to fiddle with my hair and once a stylist even made me look like a dark brown tarantula.
But now, things have changed.
As an apology to my hair, I never touch it. I leave it totally to it’s own devices. It’s ‘platinum’ and it’s long. It does whatever it wants to do.
However, oddly enough, I’m swamped with compliments. People, (mainly older women) gasp and clutch their throats when they see me. They rave about my ‘gorgeous, fabulous, incredible hair’!
Men don’t say much of anything. They just think my hair is ‘platinum.’
I’m thinking of all those years I could have had my own, gorgeous hair but I constantly pestered it, instead.
What was wrong with me? What is wrong with us? Why can’t we leave our lovely selves alone?
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