A completely inappropriate topic for a writer’s blog

Please forgive me. This is a writer’s blog, and believe me, I know I should stick to astutely articulated authorial discourses on the subject of writing: Literary Devices. POV. Transitional Elements. Prologues. Denouements. Character Arcs. Story Arcs. Joan of Arc.

You know, important stuff like that.

But honestly, and in all modesty, wouldn’t you really rather know a little something about me? Maybe, like, how I think? The deep, philosophical profundities that bounce around inside my head and make me who I am? Maybe learn the deep, dark secrets of my psyche . . . or psychoses?

Sure, you would!

Here goes.

I have the world’s worst hair, and it’s destroying my universe.

Far from my best asset, my hair is a pain in my ass-et. Refusing to hold a curl or take a perm or cooperate in any way, poker straight, my hair just sits there flat at the crown, each lifeless strand hanging down from the scalp, stubbornly resisting any sort of outside mediation or intervention beyond shampoos, blow drys, and combing. No styling. No products. No futile attempts to turn my hair into something it is not, namely something decorative, something to be proud of during those first impression occasions.

Apparently suffering from some sort of obstinate/defiant disorder, my do is a definite don’t. When I remember . . . or my sister complains how I’m letting myself go to the dogs . . . I cover the gray with a rinse. Temporary, not permanent; any color that will outlast my next change of mind is too much of a commitment for me. Then, every couple of months when I remember . . . or my sister complains how I’m letting myself go to the dogs . . . I get it all lopped off. A blunt cut, I think my hairdresser, Lorenzo, calls it.

Lorenzo. I’ve been going to him for years. He’s the only hairdresser–and I’ve been to a few–who has never insulted my hair. When I sit in his chair at the salon, we talk about other things, any subject under the sun.

Except my hair.

With the instinctive sensitivity of a really good hairdresser, Lorenzo understands my hair is a sore spot and so we just do not discuss it. We talk around it.

Two weeks ago, in a daring attempt to try something new, I asked Lorenzo to change the part from it’s usual off-center location to the side. He looked at me askance, but said nothing to dissuade me–the man knows me so well!

A quarter inch to the left, and I looked like a different woman. My hair? Incredibly gorgeous!

Until the next shampoo.

DH motions to the left side of my head. “What’s up with that?”

Now, I’m scared. When a man and woman have been married for as long as we’ve been married, who looks at one another any more? (I could tell you stories that would make¬†your¬†hair curl! Another day. Another blog.)

DH is still staring at the left side of my head. Figuring this has to be monumental, a growth of some sort that erupted overnight, we talk.

–Whatd’ya mean?–

“Your hair. It’s hanging all-wrong. Kinda lopsided.”

I run into the bathroom, gaze into the mirror.

He’s right! My new part is all askew. Like a bad comb-over, stray pieces of hair from the right side of my head traverse my scalp and hang down about an inch lower on the left side.

I straighten out my new part, and return to the kitchen.

“Looks better,” DH says.

I nod. –It’ll take time to retrain my hair. That’s all–

But even then, I had a sick feeling in my gut.

Every day, for the past fourteen days, in a last ditch effort to keep the new part, I’ve been lopping off stray pieces of straggly long hair on the left hand side.

But I know, this isn’t working. My hair has won.

Every time I go to the Stop&Shop, I talk to the bakery lady. (Ask my kids, I talk to everyone) One day, as I picked out muffins, I complimented how nice she looked–the bakery lady had obviously just returned from the salon and her white hair was all fluffed and curled.

“Don’t matter about anything else,” she said. “When my hair looks good, I feel like I can take on the world.”

I laughed in agreement, even though I had no idea what she meant.

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