The Saga of my Hair

Did I ever tell you the tale of my hair? My fine, limp, do-nothing hair? Most of my life my hairstyle has been what my mother would call "that natural windblown look". Thanks Mom for trying to put a positive spin on this. But seriously. I can spend $25 to get my haircut and walk out of the salon looking like nothing was ever done. I can buy "product" out the wazoo and it only looks good if I were to reside in a bubble. Please kids, don't touch my hair. I just fixed it. Honey, I appreciate the hug, but you just smushed my bangs. And speaking of bangs. Aren't they from the 80's? Or was it the 90's? Whatever. My hair is crying for some style. But it just doesn't know how to stay styled.

This became especially apparent when I attended college. College was near Chicago which is a very bad place for people with hair insecurities. What the wind didn't ruin, the humidity would take care of. My theme song became,"Why Worry When you can Spray?".

When my sister and I taught school and shared an apartment, together we had enough in hair care products to start our own store. We used to tease each other about the "13 Step Hair Care Process" we had to go through each morning. Pick a little, spray a little, pick a little, spray a little, pick, pick, pick, pick a lot, spray a little more.

Well anyways, when I went to Target this morning, I invested yet another $30 in "product" guaranteed to give my hair volume and weightless style! Woo-wee. Surely that is worth 30 bucks, right. After all, to misquote the six-fingered man in the movie The Princess Bride, "if you haven't got healthy hair, you haven't got anything." Yeah, yeah. I know.

While putting my "product" away, the reality of my obsession with perfect hair came clear to me. I found no less than 6 bottles of Pantene volumizing hair spray - maximum hold, of course, under the sink. Some empty, some with only a little in it, some sorta full. I also found a mostly empty bottle of finishing spritz, a very empty bottle of gel, and an empty jar of Avon face cream. Empty promises, all.

Maybe I'm just obsessed with trying to preserve my youthfulness. Or maybe I'm vain. Or maybe a terrible clutter-bug. Maybe I need to go to counseling. Maybe all of the above. Anyways, next time you see me, maybe I'll be sporting a wig of some sort. Sorta works better with these mild spring zephyrs that tend to ruffle my hair. Just thought you'd want to know.