Posts Tagged ‘hair’

I am in deep smit

Ode to my wet-to-dry flat iron:

Oh, how I love thee.

Your black enamel casing quietly hides your power.

When I unlock your locking mechanism.

I am transported to a whole new world of heat therapy.

With your three settings, high being my favorite,

Your level of heat transforms my wet locks to dry tresses.

It’s not your fault I haven’t had a haircut in 6 months

and my ends are all jagged.

I shan’t even mention it.

Except I just did mention it.

Let me instead dote on your steam vents

that release …erm, steam of course

that sometimes burns my hand

or scalp

or fingers

or anything flesh related.

It’s my fault for not paying attention

and my children’s fault for dripping toothpaste on me.

But I digress, sweet flat iron.

Where was I?  Oh yes.

Your tiny foldable frame fits so nicely in my palm.

Although, I do get a small cramp when I have to squeeze the tong thingies for humongously long periods of time

and I think I said a small cuss word in your presence when I gave myself a crimp.

Forgive me, sweet iron.

It’s not your fault I am so inept

and chose to grow long hair

or even the fact that I have staticky hair later.

That’s not your fault, either.

Is staticky a real word?

I don’t know.

But love is a word, so are joy and devotion.

All are words I use in tandem with thee, sweet flat iron.

Please don’t break on me, I shall cry real tears.

Thank you for the one good hair day I’ve had in 3 years.


The history of bad hair

I often say I have chronic bad hair.  I think most people probably read that and think “haha, cute” and go on with their day, not realizing that I am being 100% honest and truthful.

Last Friday, I went to a local hair cutting place intent on hopefully, at last, getting a hairstyle that doesn’t look like this:

Roseanna Roseannadanna aka Gilda Radner

Roseanna Roseannadanna aka Gilda Radner

I walked into the hair salon and sat down on the turning chair and began giving Carole, the hairdresser, a rundown on the malady and affliction that is my hair.  I told her right away that I was cosmetically challenged (read, please don’t suggest I purchase a $150 flat iron or nine different hair products) and when she just laughed, I told her about past hairstyles to prove it.  There was the poofy bang phase, the times I tried to use a curling iron only to realize I was using it backwards so I had that oh, so beautiful crimp right on the edge of my bangs and the mullet with the feathered sides.  I told her how my hair is very frizzy, especially like right now, when it is, as Robin Williams says in Good Morning, Vietnam, like the setting for London Broil outside.  She just laughed again.

Soon we were talking about more personal things like where we were from and children and marriage.  I usually leave ministry-related things out of my doings with most folks, not because I am ashamed of it, but history has taught me that keeping my mouth shut has its benefits and shouting from the rooftops that I have a theology degree usually clams people up.  But somehow I let it slip that my husband was a pastor and we were preparing to start a church in the near future.  I saw her in the mirror raise both hands, look to the ceiling and mouth “Thank you!”.  I wondered just how bad her day had been. 

Carole began to tell me about her husband who passed away several years ago at too young of an age.  She told me how her son had withdrawn into himself and didn’t share his grief with anyone.  She told me how she had been taught not to cry.  I asked questions now and then, but kept my comments to a minimun, because I sensed she just needed to be the one to talk.  She told me that when her husband had passed, that she handled it in an unhealthy way, which I took to mean she turned to the party scene, or something equivalent.  She told me that she had been very angry with God.  Here is where I said as kindly as I could, “He can handle that, you know.  God is big enough to handle your anger.”  And then I shut up again.

All the while, Carole had been chopping away at my hair.  The only instruction I had given her was that I was trying to grow my hair out long, despite my belief that older women with long hair looked ridiculous, like women trying to look like teenagers.  Despite that belief, I wanted to grow my hair out.  I had been looking at her face as she was cutting so I didn’t realize until later that she had been using a razor and had not been shy about it.  There was enough hair beneath my chair to stuff a pillow (remember that episode on Frasier where Frasier dates that hippy woman who cut her hair and stuffed it into a pillow?  Funny…)  Then she began to actually fix my hair.  Using a hairdryer, a flat iron and a curling iron, she made my hair actually behave. 

We had reached the end of our appointment.  I asked Carole what I needed to use to make it look as good as she had made it look.  She told me I needed to go out and buy a flat iron, some hair spray and a big round brush.  Sheesh, so much for being cosmetically challenged.

Ya’ll just don’t know.  I’ve had the worst hairstyles imagineable.  Want some proof?  Here’s 12 examples of my rotten style.  *WARNING*  If you have something in your mouth like gum, spit it out lest you choke on laughter.


The rat-tail hairstyle.

The rat-tail hairstyle.

You can’t see it, but there is a sizeable rat-tail dangling from the back of my head.  Why my mother let me walk out of the hair salon with a rat-tail is a mystery.  Also notice in the picture that my shorts are shorter than the hem of my shirt.  Nice.


Boy hair.

Boy hair.

Apparently I tired of the rat-tail look and decided to look just like a boy.  Notice the multi-colored shirt.  You can’t see them, but I’m also wearing stirrup pants.  Sigh, it only gets worse, folks.


Awkward and gawky at 11 years of age.

Awkward and gawky at 11 years of age.

What’s better than a boy haircut?  Growing out that boy haircut.  I especially like how I’ve buttoned the top button on my shirt.


Punk rock girls.

Punk rock girls.

…There are no words.  Squint really hard and you’ll see we have gold hoop earrings in our noses.  Also, those are bermuda shorts that are folded up. 


Family picture, sans my mom because there was no room due to poofy hair.

Family picture, sans my mom because there was no room due to poofy hair.

Wow.  Blame humidity.  Blame hairspray.  Blame Olan Mills. 


7th grade

7th grade

Notice the skin tight acid wash jeans, the rolled up sleeves and the friendship bracelets.  This was soon after the mullet ‘do.  And yes, I was expecting a flood.


8th grade prom

8th grade prom

Apparently, I lost the memo that pink lace was in style and chose to go with classy black.  I’m never on the same page as everyone else.  And you can’t see it, but in my left ear is a large peace sign earring.  My BFF was wearing the other one.


Tacky tacky tacky

Tacky tacky tacky

Why, yes that is a hockey jersey underneath that neon-colored winter coat!  What a good eye you have!


10th grade winter dance

10th grade winter dance

Wear a dark color for a winter dance?  Nay nay!  Let’s go for the bridesmaid dress I wore to my mother’s wedding!  Yes!  A sure fire way to NOT be asked for a dance by a member of the opposite sex!  Also, how did you fix your hair, Kearsie?  Nothing to it, I just slicked it into a sloppy ponytail!


School IDs, precursors to bad DMV photos

School IDs, precursors to bad DMV photos

The top one is of 9th grade.  I call it “the Ogilvie Home Perm disaster of ’89”.  The bottom one is 11th grade, looking stoned.  No narcotics were used, I promise.  The middle one is my senior year.  No eye contact with the camera, no smile. 


No bangs = klingon forehead

No bangs = klingon forehead

This was our first real family photo.  I’m wearing a man’s sweater that is at least 4 sizes too large and I’ve given up attempting stylish hair and shoved it all into a hair clip.  I’ll wear this hairstyle for several years, unfortunately.


What I call "The Jumper Years"

What I call "The Jumper Years"

This was at a wedding for some friends of ours.  Lance cut out the wedding party, because frankly it just looked sad with the gorgeous bride standing next to shapeless me.  But look how cute Emma was!

So you can imagine my delight when I finally looked in the mirror and saw how nice my hair looked after Carole hacked most of it off.  Here’s a picture.

New hairstyle

New hairstyle

However, now I’ll need to find, purchase and learn how to use one of these scary contraptions.
The Flat-Iron.

The Flat-Iron.

Thank you for joining me on my walk of shame.  Maybe next time I’ll show the pictures of the Granola Girl phase, aka do absolutely as little as possible with my hair or the discovery of mousse and crusty hair. 

Fashion trendsetter

Today, I made a bold fashion statement to the world.  I was fearless, and unafraid to face the world with my fashion faux pas.  Well, ok, maybe I was a little afraid. 

What was this admirable feat, you ask?  I left the house without painting my toenails. 

Big deal! you scoff?  Well, that just means you are probably a man.  I live in the South.  Southern women do not leave the house with flip-flops without painting their toenails some colorful shade of femininity.  There are a few random women out there who I know do not partake of this ritual, but their lack of doing this is consistent, much like if you left the house without a colorful dot on your forehead and no one notices because you never leave the house with a dot.  But if you always wore a dot, it would be noticed the one day you chose to not wear the dot.  Sigh, I know, it’s confusing.

While I am happy to be a woman and do not make plans to contact Johns Hopkins for voluntary surgery, I do have some bones to pick with the powers that be who decide what is kosher for women to do and not do. 

For example, let’s discuss the subject of shaving.  Now, I am a shaver.  I have been shaving since I was a wee teen and I shall continue to shave until I am too feeble to hold a razor.  But my problem is, why exactly is it that I am not a female that looks well-groomed unless I have shaved every unfashionable hair on, let’s just say-my legs.  Who out there decided that only the hairless leg was the way to be beautiful?  Or let’s take the armpit-while I prefer to be hairless, it makes deodorant application so much nicer-why must the pit be bare to be acceptable? 

I know in places like Europe this custom is not as wide spread.  For all our Western Civilized ways, that particular practice is not preferred.  It is more common to be au natural.  Perhaps they’re onto something.

Men have it so much easier.  Shut up, you do!  Men only have to shave their faces.  And even then they have the choice of having a beard and/or mustache or to not.  Women do not have this luxury.  I cannot wake up one day, look at myself in the mirror and decide, to heck with it, leg hair it is!  Then I would only have the maintenance of grooming the leg hair.  There could be a whole industry created to cater to the leg hair.  Leg hair products that make the leg hair sleek and shiny, or give it volume for that poofy look.  Little brushes to get the tangles out (it would never tangle!, you scoff?  How would we know?  WE’VE NEVER TRIED IT!).  Tiny adornments to make our legs oh, so prettier.  The sky’s the limit! 

Although, now that I think of it, I’m not sure I want the maintenance of leg hair.  My husband sports a beard which I absolutely love (bow chicka wow wow!).  But I do not love his daily ritual of getting up, getting showered, standing in front of the mirror with a small razor-thingy and trimming any and all stray hairs he deems as unworthy.  He will attempt to clean up, but will inevitably leave roughly 75% of his small, coarse hairs around the sink.  I come behind and try to wipe up the sink, only succeeding in shoving the hairs into the cracks and crevices of the sink.  We do this everyday.  Shower, trim, wipe.  Repeat process everyday until I go crazy.

Ladies (and metrosexual males and professional swimmers)!  Let’s buck this ridiculous system and grow some hair!  Who’s with me?!