It’s November 29, and there’s only one day left in this year’s NaBloPoMo. Today’s theme is Hair, because who wouldn’t want to read an entire blog post dedicated to that?
If you could change one thing about your appearance, what would it be? For me, there’s never been a question: my hair. My stupid, awful, life-ruining hair.
When I was a toddler, I had kind-of adorable hair. It spiraled out of control, straight up from my scalp. I looked like a cute little lion, rawr! But that shit was not cute or acceptable when I got older. No, as I got older, I realized that I lost the hair lottery. In so many ways.
Worst things first, my hair is not straight. Notice that I did not say that my hair is curly, or wavy. It’s none of those lovely things. It’s just this fluffy, frizzy, poofy mess, with some straight parts here, some curly parts there, and some wavy parts over there. It never dries the same from one day to the next. You know how when you’re watching ’80s movies, you have to laugh and wonder, what the heck were they thinking with that hair? Let’s just say I would have been a lot more popular if I went to high school in the ’80s.
I feel like I’ve tried everything. Expensive hair cuts. Expensive hair products. Pregnancy hormones. Praying to sweet baby Jesus. It never looks better. It looks so bad, in fact, that I’ve spent at least 5 million hours of my life blow-drying or straightening it. That’s good for me, right?
Aside from general appearance, my hair is also cursed because it falls out at an alarming rate. Alarming, you guys, it’s not normal. I can’t touch it without coming away with somewhere between 4 and 100 loose strands in my hand. Don’t worry, I’ve asked a doctor. I’m not balding, and I’m not dying.
Our floor, our carpet, our bathtub, our car, our kids, the Hubby — all completely covered in my hair. It is impossible for me to look down at my body without spotting two or three stray hairs no longer attached to my head. I’ve even had self-described touch-a-phobes reach out and brush loose hair off of me. Ugh, gross. It’s embarrassing.
The last thing that’s wrong with my hair, well, I can barely even talk about it because it makes me nauseated. Let’s just say, without expanding any further, that there may be some gray hairs on my 32-year-old head. Ew. Ugh. I just gagged a little bit as I wrote that. It’s only a sprinkling of gray, but still, I don’t know what I ever did to my hair to make it betray me so. (Maybe the decades of heat abuse?)
I can only hope that my kids have better luck with their hair than I do. And they probably will. My stupid mother-in-law has straight hair and almost no grays at 67. Whatever.
Until next time,