Right now my daughter is struggling with her hair. Beautiful, twenty-two, and naturally blonde, she decided to dye it dark brown to give herself a more ‘exotic’ look. In the early stages of a modeling career, a narrow-minded agent told Rebecca, “Blonde’s been done.” Apparently, brunette is in.
I’ve always been brunette - and always will be. (Except for a short period of time in Holland when I dyed my hair deep purple for the fun of it.) I actually have no idea what my real hair color is today but judging from my sister’s even tone of grey, I’m sure if I showed my true color it would be much the same. Years ago I decided to stop worrying about bad hair days. It hasn't been easy.
I remember my childhood when my mother signed us up with Aunt Willene for our annual Tony permanents. Aunt Willene was a beautician with a gorgeous crown of thick well-managed red hair. I wanted to look like her – or at the very least, like the cute twins on television who advertised the Tony hair products. Their hair was bouncy and blonde. My permanents always turned out tightly wound and frizzy.
My mother arranged for my last permanent when I was a freshman in high school – two days before the annual yearbook pictures were taken. That yearbook remains hidden away in a dark closet so I never have to be reminded of that humiliating bad hair day now immortalized. Soon after the infamous photo was taken, the folk singing trio Peter, Paul, and Mary became popular. Long straight hair was the new look. I adamantly refused to get my hair cut or curled– ever again.
In my sophomore year I remember sitting on the floor in front of the hallway mirror every night, rolling my shoulder length hair on fat brush rollers to give my do a smooth and fashionable look. By midmorning the next day, the curl had fallen out and I spent the day pushing what my mother called my straggle mop out of my eyes and away from my face. I spent the next twenty years tucking my hair behind my ears or pinning it up on top of my head in a not-so-fashionable bun. At least, it wasn’t frizzy.
By1984 I was living in Bangkok. It was hot; it was humid. I had survived my first pregnancy wearing my hair in pigtails – a very un-chic look for someone soon to be a parent. When the baby grabbed his first fistful of hair and tugged, I thought my scalp would bleed and decided it was time to get it all cut off. Never mind that I couldn’t speak Thai very well. Never mind that I hadn’t a clue what to ask for – I marched myself down to the nearest salon and smiled. The Thai beautician did the rest. Lo and behold, I walked out of that salon with short, curly hair… my first permanent since 1962! And I liked it!
Several things were running in my favor that day: chemical hair products had significantly advanced since my last salon visit – thanks in most part to poor rabbits who suffered in test laboratories in the name of beauty. I thank them – and mourn their suffering. But I looked great – and tight, curly hairdos were in! This was the beginning of my new love affair with the permanent. My friends now compliment me on my naturally curly hair. They consider me lucky and bemoan their own long, straight, droopy locks. I smile and say thank you. Occasionally I tell the truth – that my hair is ‘chemically enhanced’. And I keep on making those appointments with my beautician every six months to ensure that my naturally curly look stays – well natural!
Last week I visited my daughter who sat lamenting the loss of her beautiful blonde hair. Because of some serious mistakes on the part of her beautician and a few more bad choices on color, she had had to cut her hair short – a look she finds ‘unfeminine’.
Her distress was palpable; I felt my own stomach churning with memories crying over bad hair days. She looked at me longingly and lamented: “I hate my hair! How come I don’t have pretty curly hair like you do?” I smiled at the thought that my own children don’t even know that I have skinny, stick straight hair. I patted her hand as I told her not to worry – it would get better. Her hair would grow out soon enough. Hair always does.
That’s the one thing you can count on when you have a bad hair day – eventually, hair gets better.
What story about your hair would you like to re-write?
How attached to your looks are you?
What do you do when you're having a bad hair day?
Write a story about the worst thing that's ever happened to your hair.
Who has the best hair among your peers? Why? What do you like best about it?
What do you like best about yourself?