hair

As part of today’s haircut, the stylist offered to style my hair. She pitched the idea of ironing out my hair. Curiosity got the better of me. I’ve never actually had my hair straightened before, and I wondered what it would look like.

Now I know. It’s a little creepy, actually. I pat my head and there’s no sproing, just this weird odd sleekness that my hair normally can’t achieve, even when wet.

It’s already disturbed two co-workers and one friend. It also took a LOT of work, so I doubt that I will buy the equipment to make it work, but it was an interesting experiment and an unusual change.

"..and the prince and the drummer and the fire girls
Couldn't get our guitars in tune
And I knew it was over when the sound man said
"I wish we were still in …"

June.

Every now and then, it's fun to reconnect with someone who has been out of the loop for a few weeks, just for the sheer fun of surprising them with what's been going on in your life.

me: hey, stranger!
Jody: wasabi
me: heh. I have some news for you
me: 1) I no longer wear glasses
2) I have short hair
Jody: WOW
Jody: what happened?

June?

That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

After all the commentary I've made about the unruly nature of my hair, someone asked me if I'd provide a couple of photos of what it looks like. I present two photos, both of which are pretty reasonable images of what you can expect my hair to be like on any given day. Now that it's long and neatly clipped again, I resort either to the low-ponytail or the two-chopsticks method of restraining it. Any doubt you might've had about the length or thickness of my hair can be answered by looking at how much of the chopsticks are hidden under that bun.

The road to hell is paved with hair-care products. I’m sure of it.

I tiptoed out in the howling mass of humidity that is pre-thunderstorm northern Alabama on a shamefully-girly errand: hair trimming. My photographic adventures at the Vienna Teng show had shown me that my left braid was a little longer than my right, and that if I wanted to avoid looking like an asymmetrical Pippi Longstocking, that it might be best to venture into…

…the hall of girlyness.
…the den of female iniquity.

The hair salon.

Somewhere between poise and thud I had the time to wonder, “What the heck did I slip o-” thud.

After verifying that my unexpected Sunday morning skidoo had not managed to permanently realign any bones, I tried to figure out what in the world had caused me to slip on an otherwise fairly-trusty bathroom floor. It only took me four days to spot the mess.

Ever heard of silicone serum? To those of you with short, fine, straight, or otherwise manageable hair, it’s a foreign and vaguely disgusting concept. (I cannot begin to count the number of times I’ve been asked “You put what on your hair?”) For those of us who fall - multiple times - into the latter category (known to stylists as “Oh God” hair or, more simply, as “A Challenge”), silicone serum is revered, worshiped, and hoarded.

She reached behind me and weighed matters with a quick twist of her arm. “Are you absolutely sure about this? That’s pretty drastic…” The feel of the weight coming off my shoulders was dizzying, powerful. Up until that point I had never considered it to be a burden; it was something to be tucked up and away with elastic bands or caps, or carefully restrained with a bow.

I was seventeen, and absolutely certain. “Cut it.”“But it’s…beautiful. You’re absolutely certain you want me to do this? It will take you years to grow this back.”

As she spoke, I took my glasses off and tucked them under the plastic robelike drape they make you wear (to protect your clothes from rogue hairs) while sitting in the cutting chairs. Without my glasses, I was blind—and had to trust. Trust felt sticky and warm, like the back of my neck, which was rapidly beginning to adhere to the nonporous plastic drape.