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02/07/2008: "Lord Help Me"

So it's like this. The last time I got my hair cut was about 2 weeks before Dessa was born. I knew I wouldn't be heading in to the hairdresser's anytime soon postpartum, given my notoriously lax hairdressing habits in the past. Even when I have copious amounts of time, money, energy and a decent idea of what I might want my hair to look like... I still don't always go when I need to.

The truth is that my hair and I have always had a less than comfortable relationship. Ever since the great "feathers" fiasco of 1980 I have had an uneasy truce with my coif. My hair was not meant for feathers, you see. I was way too young to handle the hot curling iron and hair spray combination that any Farrah-do that might have sprung from my tender scalp would have required. And I was not born to a family in which heavy hair-grooming has ever been a priority. My mother didn't know what "product" was until approximately 1998.

So I was really behind the 8-ball when I decided to take my hair into my own hands and have it cut into feathers. My mother, for the record, was violently opposed to this move. I cannot say that I was not warned about the folly of the feather.

But I forged ahead. And when the stylist was done with me, I had the Aquanetted feathers of my dreams. I looked hot, yo (as hot as a fourth grader with crunchy hair can look, that is). And I felt victorious because all the naysaying in the world from Mom had been proven wrong. My hair looked fantastic.

Until I washed it.

Once I washed all that hairspray and the 45 minutes of work that the experienced stylist had put into my 'do? I was screwed. I had no idea whatsoever of how to tease and torture my new cut back into the look I craved. And nobody around me knew how to do it either. I had no curling iron, no hairspray, no older mentor and... no clue.

I was devastated. My hair now looked like crap (shaggy crap at that) and I was stuck with it. I took to pulling it back with hand-knit hair bands that my Gramma made for me. It was not a hot look.

This fiasco was the opening salvo in my ongoing hair wars. I have had blunt cuts that made me look like I was wearing a lampshade, crispy bangs curled up and to the side in best Bon Jovi bitch fashion, crimps, bobs, layers, straightenings... I hate to think of all I've put my hair through.

The problem is that I always think I'm more willing to fiddle with my hair than I actually am. I have this ridiculously thick, frizzy curly head of hair that has a mind of it's own and will hold a curl like no tomorrow but won't stay straight on a bet. I can spend 45 minutes straightening the stuff with hot iron and product and if somebody so much as breathes heavily on it, it curls back up.

It's difficult hair, is what I'm saying.

But stylists love it. It's thick and lush and does whatever they tell it to do. My hair, like an unruly 8th grader, will do whatever someone else wants but rebels at even the slightest sight of me. So I always get convinced by the stylist that with just a little product... with just 5 minutes a day... with just this flip of the wrist (that I later find I am anatomically unable to perform)... my hair will look stunning.

And it always does. Until I wash it. Then I am stuck with it until it grows out enough and I've screwed up my courage enough to head back in.

During bad hair times I tend to stick it in a pony tail for months at a time (washing it of course, but then... right back up). There were the baseball-cap years, better left undiscussed (I was relatively depressed at the time...). There was the French haircut, a too-short lesbian oriented affair that repeatedly got me addressed as Monsieur, to my chagrin (I blame a lot of that on the language barrier because I can).

By this point in my life I'm really hesitant to go to the hairdresser's. And yet every once in a while something will seize me and I will have had ENOUGH. Then I call someone - anyone - and get a haircut. There comes a point when anything is better than this and so I have the guts to do something about it.

Today's the day.

This afternoon I'm going in to get a haircut. I have no idea what I want. Fortunately, I have a history with this stylist, who also cuts my sister's hair and my mom's hair (at my recommendation). She understands my hair and has done me well in the past, even going so far as to color my hair fantastically a few years ago. I was an almost-blonde with her and got so many compliments I could hardly stand it. I may go that route again. I dunno.

Basically I intend to walk in and say, "Tammy, this is the situation. I have an 8 month old. I will be returning to work soon. I need a wash and wear hairstyle that doesn't make people wonder why I'm not going into the men's room. I have no preferences for how short or long you leave my hair. Anything is better than this ponytail, so let's talk. What do you suggest?"

And then I will listen attentively, refuse anything that requires tools to accomplish, and come home with the perfect cut for me.

Right? RIGHT?

Oh my god. I'm going to wind up with feathers again, aren't I?