more on hair, from a friend

My friend M sent me the following about her own hair experience.  

If my hair is so “great,” why does it always look bad?

I don’t trade on my looks.  Never have, never will.  I will concede that people usually remark on two physical traits of mine—my hair and my eyes.

Let’s start with the eyes—large, brown, almond-shaped, surrounded by a crown of long, thick eyelashes.  Plus, I know how to use them to my advantage.  I once took the “charisma” test in Self Magazine.  If you “smile” with your eyes, you have charisma.  Princess Diana had charisma.  So, apparently, do I.

Then, there’s my hair.  Abundantly thick.  Chestnut brown.  Slight wave to it.  “You are so lucky,” people say to me all the time.  “I’d kill to have hair like that.”  Every hairdresser I have ever had has commented that my hair is among the best they’ve ever seen.  You’d think with all this greatness at their disposal, they could craft a decent hair cut.  Somehow it never happens.  Turns out my hair is too coarse to flow.  This means it gets cut short.

Then, there’s my personality.  I’ve noticed that once hairdressers get to know me, they cut my hair shorter and a bit messier.  “Sassy like you,” they say.  “A little edgy,” too.  Sometimes it looks a tad butch as if they are trying to reveal my inner lesbian. Which I’m not. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

My niece got married last weekend.  I was the Justice of the Peace.  I wanted my hair to look elegant for my first, last and only gig as JP.  I got it professionally blown dry.  It cost $68.  I almost gagged on the price, but I thought it would be worth it.  I would be up on the balcony with the bride and groom.  In front of 250 people.  I had to look my best.

The hairdresser worked on my hair for an hour.   All four inches of it.  She tried to smooth it out but it kept puffing up like Jiffy Pop.  The more the blow dryer was used, the bigger it got.  She put pomade in it but it just looked greasy.  She sprayed it until I almost passed out.  I looked like my Aunt Virginia.

As I walked from the salon back to the hotel, I paused at every reflective surface to scrutinize my hair from every angle.  I noticed a large egg-shaped protrusion from the back left where I have a cow lick.  How I missed that when the hairdresser was doing remedial blowing, I will never know.

I got back to the hotel and decided it bothered me enough that I jumped in the shower and washed it out.  I blew dry my hair myself.  The look was familiar if not elegant.  At least I didn’t look like I had a tumor on the left side of my head.

The wedding pictures come back.  I look hideous.  There I am on the balcony with the bride and groom.  Butch haircut, flat against my head, looking like Donna Shalala, Bill Clinton’s Secretary of Health and Human Services.

So much for great hair.