Hair: Such a Tease

If you are an avid follower of my blog (which you should be), I am sure that you know I am obsessed with a lot of things (i.e. Starbucks, myself, Facebook). Clearly, the examples provided are worthy of my time and obsessive nature -- however there are some things that I leave unnoticed. Namely my hair.

My locks are easily the simplest thing about me. They are a chestnutty brown. Cumulatively, my hair is equivalent to the state of Rhode Island, whereas my closest friend's hair is more like Texas. They require little attention from me (unlike my feet, hands, skin) and can often be dried in under a minute. ONE MINUTE. Think about the last time you blow dried your hair ladies. Men, well, I am flattered you are still reading.

For as long as I can remember, I have bounced from my Dad's stylist to my Mom's (love ya D!) -- each time saying, "I'd like a trim, and y'know, something easy." (Chill Grandma, I'm just talking about my hair.) I love highlights, and having someone else wash my hair. They always style it, giving me a momentary vision of hope...until it quickly looses shape once stepping foot outside the salon. Such a tease you are, hair.

In the event that you have had the privilege of waking up next to me, you know that my hair is infamous for being the worst morning hair OF ALL TIME. (Note: Thank gawd my Grandmother doesn't have the internet. I am sure that statement alone would be support for her "...whoring around" comment. See 'Drinkin' For Two' if you don't get the reference, you lazy follower.) Though it's straighter than raw spaghetti, my hair has the ability to form itself into some type of poofy, Meduza-esque mess that can only be replicated by stage-stylists.

I once had a roommate that taught me that half a can of hairspray + backcombing + a ponytail = sexy hair. That right there? Is the extent that I go through for my hair. If I curl it, it goes flat. If I crimp it, I end up looking like a lame Kelly Kapowski replica (side pony?!) No hair product has done me good, unless it's dry shampoo. Otherwise my tresses rebel, absorbing whatever I've tried so that I could pass as a Greaser. ::puke::

When I was 12, my hair waterfalled down my back. It was a long, thin mess of a pony tail that I assume was more trouble than what I can remember. I went to get a cut with my cousin, swearing I was going to have her chop it off. And chop she did. I went from being Cousin It's little sister to a tom-boy with a shag bowl cut. Imagine my Mother's surprise (she always has a perfect 'do, fyi. Blonde bob, with bangs. Perfect.) when I came home, pony tail in hand, near tears to what the stylist had done to my previously lengthy quaff. Needless to say I was rarely unaccompanied for cuts after that, nor did I want to be.

Hair stylists to women are like bartenders to men. They are witty, cheerful people that make you look beautiful -- or if you're a man, your bartender not only listens but pours you enough sauce so the woman next to temporarily appears beautiful. For years my Dad would take me to Great Clips, because what did I know of foiling and feathered layers? Once I finally discovered a woman who promised me effortless, cute hair I was in awe of my willingness to spend my meagre college paychecks every 6-weeks to sit in her chair, and babble about whatever unimportant drama was happening in my life (usually with a hangover.)

Then, I moved back home, leaving my stylist behind.

It's been more than six months since my last cut. My hair is long enough to pull back into a ponytail. My natural color has returned, and my morning beehive seems to be in full swing. I keep promising myself I'll find someone new. Someone just as good. Rather, I live in a world of hair denial, with full on stylist withdrawals.

To you, dearest quaff, I am sorry. I promise to no longer ignore your spaghetti like nature -- I'll find someone new.

But not quite yet...R's in town and I need her scissors one more time...