Hairy Issues
I have long had a love-hate relationship with my hair. About the time I hit puberty and my hair texture went haywire, I began to loathe my hair. It was ultra-thick, frizzy, and impossible to control. It couldn't decide if it wanted to be curly or straight or wavy. It couldn't decide what color it wanted to be. There was no question-- for years and years, whenever I was asked the question "If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?" I thought of my hair. No, it didn't occur to me that getting rid of my volatile temper or my horrible shyness or my phobia of using the phone might be the most beneficial changes. If I could just have normal, pretty hair, all my problems would be solved!
*snort*
Even as I started to see some of the good things about my hair-- thick hair can be pretty, it grows long quickly, and the multiple shades from blonde to very dark brown looked pretty cool swirling in a french braid-- I still wished I could change it. I wanted soft, smooth hair that was either straight as a board or hung in glossy corkscrew curls. I wanted the kind of hair that would look sophisticated and sleek when cut short, rather than appearing to be a stiff bunch of bristles attempting to be the white girl's version of an afro.
As I grew out of teenagerhood though, I started to realize something important. Most women want the kind of hair they don't have. I stopped moaning that having my kind of hair was unfair. It was no longer the one quality I would change about myself. I tried to work with the advantages I have, rather than focusing on the drawbacks.
My hair still drove me mad on occasion though. Things took a turn for the better when I discovered hair serum at the end of my mission. A product that more or less tamed the frizziness and if I blow-dried it using a round brush and a lot of arm muscle (and roughly three hours of effort) I was left with glorious thick, shiny wavy hair. This is what I did every Sunday before church in our singles ward after my mission. I was part of the marriage market, after all! (Must have paid off since I snagged quite a good husband out of that pool.) Of course, I couldn't keep that kind of effort up forever, especially after the babies started coming.
All along I kept the preference for straight (or slightly wavy, as long as it was smooth) hair. If I didn't have time for that kind of effort, I wore my hair in a bun or braided. But once I started training for my first triathlon and I was swimming all the time, I called a truce with my hair and finally let it go curly-ish. (Hair serum is a must for this option too, but it's way easier than blow drying or using a flat iron.) I still braid it or put it in a bun (especially if I haven't washed it recently or it starts looking too frizzy) but it's down as often as it is up, which is different from how I've worn it most of my life.
The trouble is, I'm starting to swing back into the strong dislike towards my hair thing. It's time to do something with it, and that is always stressful. Let's start with a picture, so that those of you who don't see me all the time have a reference point:
It's getting kind of long, but I guess I'll keep the length. (Terence recently begged me not to chop a bunch of inches off. The longer, the better, in his book apparently.) But it does need to be trimmed at least-- it's been over a year since any kind of hair cut, and I've got split ends galore. Almost as irritating are the increasing number of white hairs sprouting up all over. The kids keep pointing them out and asking if I'm going to be a grandma soon. (No way, José!!)
So if this is bugging me, why don't I take care it it? Instead of slowly starting to despise my hair again, why not get to a hair stylist and fix it? I have some fear of letting anyone with scissors near my hair-- a few bad haircuts loom crystal clear in my memory-- but I've had some fantastic ones also so that shouldn't really hold me back. What's the real sticking point?
I need to make a phone call to get a hair appointment. Yeah. If I could change one thing about myself, maybe it should be the phone phobia . . . .
*snort*
Even as I started to see some of the good things about my hair-- thick hair can be pretty, it grows long quickly, and the multiple shades from blonde to very dark brown looked pretty cool swirling in a french braid-- I still wished I could change it. I wanted soft, smooth hair that was either straight as a board or hung in glossy corkscrew curls. I wanted the kind of hair that would look sophisticated and sleek when cut short, rather than appearing to be a stiff bunch of bristles attempting to be the white girl's version of an afro.
As I grew out of teenagerhood though, I started to realize something important. Most women want the kind of hair they don't have. I stopped moaning that having my kind of hair was unfair. It was no longer the one quality I would change about myself. I tried to work with the advantages I have, rather than focusing on the drawbacks.
My hair still drove me mad on occasion though. Things took a turn for the better when I discovered hair serum at the end of my mission. A product that more or less tamed the frizziness and if I blow-dried it using a round brush and a lot of arm muscle (and roughly three hours of effort) I was left with glorious thick, shiny wavy hair. This is what I did every Sunday before church in our singles ward after my mission. I was part of the marriage market, after all! (Must have paid off since I snagged quite a good husband out of that pool.) Of course, I couldn't keep that kind of effort up forever, especially after the babies started coming.
All along I kept the preference for straight (or slightly wavy, as long as it was smooth) hair. If I didn't have time for that kind of effort, I wore my hair in a bun or braided. But once I started training for my first triathlon and I was swimming all the time, I called a truce with my hair and finally let it go curly-ish. (Hair serum is a must for this option too, but it's way easier than blow drying or using a flat iron.) I still braid it or put it in a bun (especially if I haven't washed it recently or it starts looking too frizzy) but it's down as often as it is up, which is different from how I've worn it most of my life.
The trouble is, I'm starting to swing back into the strong dislike towards my hair thing. It's time to do something with it, and that is always stressful. Let's start with a picture, so that those of you who don't see me all the time have a reference point:
It's getting kind of long, but I guess I'll keep the length. (Terence recently begged me not to chop a bunch of inches off. The longer, the better, in his book apparently.) But it does need to be trimmed at least-- it's been over a year since any kind of hair cut, and I've got split ends galore. Almost as irritating are the increasing number of white hairs sprouting up all over. The kids keep pointing them out and asking if I'm going to be a grandma soon. (No way, José!!)
So if this is bugging me, why don't I take care it it? Instead of slowly starting to despise my hair again, why not get to a hair stylist and fix it? I have some fear of letting anyone with scissors near my hair-- a few bad haircuts loom crystal clear in my memory-- but I've had some fantastic ones also so that shouldn't really hold me back. What's the real sticking point?
I need to make a phone call to get a hair appointment. Yeah. If I could change one thing about myself, maybe it should be the phone phobia . . . .
Comments
I think your hair looks pretty.