I know it’s not your fault. Genetics are half to blame for the frizzy mop that you have become. You have Dad to thank for that one. The other half of the blame falls on my general lack of expertise in hair.
You were not blessed with the skill to flawlessly cascade down to my shoulders. You were not meant to produce bouncy curls or soft waves. You were not meant to look like beach waves or straight as a pencil. You were not meant to look like magazine models or the girls on America’s Next Top Model.
The only style I’ve ever really done is tuck you back into a ponytail (our signature look). Nothing too fancy like a French braid, or a regular braid for that matter. No curly cues or crimped up does. No half-ponies or pigtails. I mean, don’t get me wrong. I did give those hairstyles a try before. Don’t you remember those days?
Once, I use to style you in Shirley Temple curls that framed my face. You bounced and were different than my normal look. But the amount of gel it took to get you to look good was extensive. I knew it was the end of the curly hair era when that boy asked that stupid question in our afternoon history class:
CLUELESS BOY: “Did you just get to school?”
CLUELESS BOY: “Then why is your hair wet?”
ME: “It’s hair gel, it makes the curls stay.”
CLUELESS BOY: “Oh…sorry.”
CLUELESS BOY: “I mean it’s okay to say it’s sweat. No need to feel embarrassed”
I have never ended a hairstyle so swiftly.
I’ve also straightened you to a pin. It was the only way I found to be quite efficient and lovely. It was smooth and luxurious. It was easy to handle, flip, and twirl around my finger. I felt like an Herbal Essences model, flipping you around in the wind, eyeing those handsome boys…but then “it” would come.
“It” being any type of precipitation that would fall from the sky. One drop and you decided that it was time to shrivel right back up. I know that you nor I can control the weather, but man, I wished some days I was Pajama Sam and I could at least tweak it for our benefit.
And, to be honest, I’m just lazy. It takes me forever to get you to look like that. I spend at least an hour taming, frying, and spraying. I would rather sleep that extra hour than try to wrangle you into a suitable hairstyle.
Yes, I’ve heard it all before. It doesn’t look professional. It makes you look like a kid. It shouldn’t be an everyday hairstyle. You should embrace your natural hair. You should learn to get faster at doing your hair in other ways, etc. But to all those people who constantly tell me these things…why are you so concerned with my hair? IT’S JUST HAIR FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! (No offense to you of course).
Although I may say that I hate you sometimes, curse at the rain, and bundle you up into a ponytail…I do indeed love you.
I love the way you always remind me that I can’t control everything in life. I love when I wake up in the morning and look at you in all your fluffy, frizzy, glory. I love you because you haven’t fallen out of my head, you’ve stuck around for the long run. I love the way you make me feel like I’m in an 80’s hairband in the morning and I can head bang like it was my job. Nothing is more freeing than dancing around to “I Wanna Be Sedated” by the Ramones, swinging my hair around, and singing into my hairbrush.
And when all is set and done, you willingly let me pull you back into my signature ponytail. Then there she is. Me. The reflection in the mirror suddenly becomes the “me” I recognize. The “me” that needs to prove nothing to nobody because she can wear whatever darn hairstyle she pleases because she’ll still be one hell of a beautiful woman.
So, to my future self I say: may your ponytails never snap, may your curls and waves run free, may your hairline stay intact, and may your days be filled with ponytails (and cupcakes too, cause why not?).
Love you lots so never change!