Thursday, February 19, 2009
If a Woman's Hair Is Her Crowning Glory Then I Am In Trouble
This past year while The Calm One was on deployment, I sought solace in the fact that at least I had some good hair goin' on.
While that sounds terribly arrogant, rest assured, dear reader, that it was not of my own doing. In fact it had very little to do with me and everything to do with my friend, my confidante, my hairdresser. She shall heretofore be know as The Hair Genius. She worked wonders and that is no small feat what with my weird hair part at the back of my head and penchant for trimming my own bangs.
I know I am not good at trimming my bangs. That's why I only do my bangs and not the rest of my hair. But sometimes, a girl has to wait another week or two before she can see The Hair Genius, but cannot allow, in all good conscious, her bangs to grow any longer. Hair in eyes is so not a good thing. Some girls can pull it off. I'm just not one of them. The Hair Genius knew how to fix my wacky bangs.
Anyway . . . One of the caveats of moving was losing the close proximity of The Hair Genius. We are now far enough away that if I want to have her do my hair, I have to plan a weekend around it and make arrangements for overnight lodging.
This does not make Jubilee joyful.
Since moving, I have tried to replace the Hair Genius with lesser talented versions. I may as well have tried to carve another president's head into Mt. Rushmore. With a pencil eraser.
Finding even a passable hairdresser has proven to be more agonizing than finding a new ob/gyn. Which, BTW, I have yet to even attempt. Some things are better left undone until you have the full confidence of good hair. An ob/gyn appointment requires, if nothing else, good hair. Something has to bolster a gal's spirit during said appointment. 'Cause you it ain't gonna get it from seeing the doc wielding those cold, silver instruments of lower body torture. I'm just sayin'.
When we lived in this area before The Calm One's deployment, I found a gal that was awfully young, but she could do hair. And she was funny to boot. She is no longer working as a hair stylist. Much to my dismay. But I still went back to the same salon hoping for a good experience.
It was not.
Chunks of hair are missing where I am sure there is supposed to be hair. Somehow this little gal made my poorly trimmed bangs even more pathetic. So, I guess one could argue that she does have talent, just not the kind of talent I was looking for.
I have never had a worse haircut. Not even the time my parents visited me while I was 16 and working at a church camp and, in a moment of pure weakness, I begged my mom to "take a little of the ends."
Let's say it together, shall we? "Famous last words."
My mom, who up until that point had never held a pair of scissors in anticipation of cutting another person's hair, did a better job than the girl who cut my hair last week. And my mom hacked my hair to pieces. Bless her heart.
I am in agony, folks. Hair agony. I have resorted to wearing a bandanna. A do-rag, no less. Talk about wallowing in the frump. Luckily the only places I've needed to leave the house for is the Y to workout and the Wal-Mart. So, admittedly, I fit right in. But there are places I'd like to go - like church, out to eat . . . the possibilities are endless.
If only I had good hair.
Or any hair at all. I am afraid that not even The Hair Genius could clean up this mess of a mop.
Wonder what my mom and her trusty pair of scissors are doing this weekend?