It’s a funny thing about hair, those few square inches on top of our heads that occupy our morning grooming ritual. For those of us who flirt with vanity, a Good Hair or Bad Hair morning is perceived to be a celestial indicator of blessing or curse upon the whole day. We are cautious even then, because we know that even a Good Hair day can be spoiled by a nasty bout of Hat Hair.
The truth is, our hair, whether thick or thin, tinted or drab, straight or curly, short or long, graying or disappearing, can easily intimidate and dominate us, taking up too much time and undermining our self-esteem.
For some of us, it is even more tyrannical; hair is our enemy. It is a separate entity living atop our heads, forcing us to battle its tendrils and tufts daily. Sometimes the morning’s battle takes up to an hour. Another day, it’s all over in a few minutes. Either way, the result of our morning battle accompanies us wherever we go. Our heads are either holding high a crown of glorious victory, or we skulk about in shame, subdued and beaten by a triumphant cowlick.
Hair-raising as it may sound, dealing with my hair is a war, and war requires drastic measures. I have stockpiled an arsenal of weapons in my bathroom. Since I’ve found chemical warfare to be the most effective, I have set in a supply of shampoos, conditioners, gels, oils, sprays, and heat buffers. However, my blow-gun (appropriately named), curling iron, brushes, teasers, and combs are kept on emergency standby. Also appropriated to hold the prisoner in bondage and to imprison the unruly, are clips, barrettes, elastics, hair combs, and bobby pins.
When I was young, my mother bravely fought the hair battles for me since I was inclined to surrender to the tangled strands rather than painfully force the comb through the morning’s matted snarls.
I also remember the dreaded stinky, messy Tonette battles. For the uninitiated, Tonettes were the first perms created for little girls. Even as I played with the paper dolls that were included in the box, I felt like a P. O. W. awaiting release from the torture of the ammonia fumes that threatened to suffocate me.
In between perms, my mother valiantly battled on. After carefully combing out curl-sized strands from my fine, flyaway hair, she coiled each one around her finger and anchored it to my head with bobby pins. The dream of bouncy Shirley Temple curls disappeared as soon as the pins were removed and my new “curls” combed out stubbornly limp, even straight. Frustrated, but refusing to surrender to untidy hair, Mom finally claimed victory by braiding my hair into submission.
For the past several years, my General and Chief Strategist has been my hair stylist, Barb Kehoe. She is also my friend, confidante, and gifted magician with her own formidable arsenal of secret potions and wonder wands. However, the most powerful weapon, she has taught me is inside of my head, not what happens on the outside.
So, I am finally learning to make peace with my hair. As with any worthy opponent, the ultimate victory is to accept and forgive their flaws, and to build on their strengths. It may be splitting hairs, but that is how wars are won.