I'm having a bad hair lifetime. It started out as a bad hair day, stretched into a bad hair week, then extended itself into a bad hair month. I don't really remember my bad hair childhood, but it is permanently recorded in my mother's photographic records. I remember in excruciating detail my bad hair adolescence, which has prepared me, more or less, for my bad hair adult life.
My hair has always been a source of grief to me, and dealing with it is like dealing with any other grief. First, there is denial. (I can't believe this is happening to me! It'll be fine. A little more gel will fix it. OK, hair spray. Spritz! Where's my spritz? I NEED SPRITZ! I can't believe this is happening to me!) Anger comes next. (Aaagh! I HATE MY HAIR! This isn't fair! People with curly hair don't ever have to deal with this. Stupid straight hair. I HATE MY HAIR!) The next step is bargaining. (Please, God, don't make me go out in public like this. Just let me get the comb through all this spritz, and I swear I'll never make fun of anyone's hair ever again. Really. Even people with tall hair will be safe, if you just let this helmet relax enough to brush through!) Finally, there is acceptance. (I guess this is it. I can either wash it and start over, or make the best of it.)
Don't get me wrong, I am not always facing the same problem. I'm just never problem-free. When I was little, my hair was long and shiny, but not blonde (and everyone knows that real princesses have blonde hair). In late elementary school, it was an awkward length &emdash; too short to put in a ponytail, but too long to leave hanging down. Junior high was a nightmare. I had the right cut, but the wrong texture. Fine hair plus out-of-control oil production was a recipe for social rejection, especially when combined with acne, braces, and glasses. I was the poster child for geekdom.
By ninth grade, I was feeling optimistic. Feathered hair was coming in. Finally, something my hair could do! I was elated. That is, until I realized that my hair is hypersensitive to the forces of gravity. No matter how perfectly it feathered in front of the mirror at home, by the time I got to school it looked shaggy and stringy. I tried in vain to match Farrah's perfect, face-framing sausage curls, but my hair remained stubbornly straight. I tried curling irons, sponge rollers, and steam curlers. I tried setting lotion and mousse and gel. Nothing worked.
High school heralded the magic of the permanent wave. Now anybody's hair could be forced to hold a curl, the ads insinuated. I bought their story hook, line, and sinker. I tried every brand and every curler size. The best I ever got was a slight wave.
By the time I reached college, I was nearing the acceptance stage of the grieving process. I threw out my sponge rollers, gave my curling iron to the girl across the hall, and took my steam curlers to a white-elephant gift exchange. I swore off permanents. I swore off hair goop. I swore off swearing at my hair. It was time to face the bitter truth. My hair is, and always has been, straight. What a relief! It was as if a great weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I could wear my hair straight. I began to notice straight-haired models in my favorite magazines. As my perm-frizzed hair grew out, and my smooth, straight, truly honest hair grew in, I began to get really excited. For the first time in my life, I was going to have really good hair!
I should have known better. By the time I had trimmed the last of the tired perm from the ends of my hair, I had noticed a disturbing trend. My hair was no longer truly straight! I couldn't believe it! My lifetime prayers were finally being answered &emdash; but what bad timing! I tried to tell myself it was just leftover perm wave, but after two years I had to let go of even that desperate hope. I have now resigned myself to my infuriating hair.
I wore my hair long for years, for purely practical reasons. I loved being able to sweep it into a ponytail or a twist when I wanted it out of my face, and being able to let it down for romantic effect when the mood struck me. But then I decided I wanted a different look. Something new. Something stylish. Something that even my hair couldn't do wrong. I cropped it into a chin-length bob, convinced that I could tuck it behind my ears to get it out of my face. I should have known better. I soon developed a habit of sweeping the hair out of my eyes every 15 seconds or so. And as for no-fail style...well, it curls under perfectly &emdash; on the left side. The right side, on the other hand, seems to be channeling a free spirit, or perhaps a poltergeist. I am currently growing it back out. The way I figure it, if I can't have good hair, I guess bad hair is better than no hair at all. (I think.)