It isn’t always a vain person who asks, “What must I do with my hair?” Decisions regarding the precious locks can have earth-shattering consequences. Whether you should wear them long/short, curvy/poker straight, black/burgundy are questions that can hardly be answered without trepidation.
Life was a lot less complicated when parents got done what they wanted on my head. I was too young to appreciate God’s gift to mankind in the form of countless strands that can be messed with any which way.
But this perfect-hair utopia didn’t last too long. Before I knew it, there were hair-styles to be experimented with, and I do emphasize the word ‘experiment’. The hair-scientist (read barber’s) scissors worked away with the promise of a solution to all hair woes. And just like any experiment the results over the years varied from the expected to the plain bizarre.
No matter what the experiments yielded, one thing was clear…there are primarily two kinds of people in this world (no not blondes and brunettes). There are those with great (by which I simply mean ‘manageable’) hair and those like yours truly. When I bargained for the wild quotient in my life I was certainly not talking about my hair.
Yes there are some near-perfect moments like shampooed-not-dry, just-had-a-hair-cut, combed-till-one-dropped. But these moments don’t make up for the countless others when directionless strands wage war against neighbours and refuse to live in the vicinity of each other.
There are products on shelves that promise hair-divinity. But a shampoo bottle that reads “For dry and damaged hair” on your personal shelf promises little that can be termed divine.
Perhaps self-help books on the subject (to the tune of ‘Count your strands while they’re still on your head’) may provide some form of solution. If positive reinforcement were a panacea for all hair woes I could’ve stood in front of the mirror everyday and said with conviction: “I have great hair”. This would’ve set off a chain reaction ultimately ending in belligerent strands raising the white flag. ‘Truce!’ they would’ve screamed and there would’ve been peace on my head.
Alas, head-peace oft appears a mirage in the desert. The search for the oasis continues while I save myself from sandstorms and sometimes contemplate going bold (read bald) in my approach.
If fate has it writ that I shall drink from the great-hair-all-day pool, so it shall be.
And until that day comes, the wild nature of a whole lot of keratin will keep the frizzy groove on.