Hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair, hair
Flow it, show it
Long as God can grow it
It’s been exactly 164 days since my last hair appointment and I can’t get these lyrics out of my head.
Gimme a head with hair
Long beautiful hair
Streaming, flaxen, waxen
I consider myself lucky, though. Thanks to extreme myopia, I never get a real close look at myself anyway. Most days, I think I’m doing great until I put my contacts in and then, luckily, my age-related far-sightedness kicks in and I still can’t see a darn thing until I put my reading glasses on and, well, who wants to do that just to look in the mirror?
Bad eyesight is the true gift of old age. It’s like God slid a filter over my eyes that makes everything looks fresh and smooth.
Every now and then, though, I get a clear glimpse and it’s not good. It’s not good at all. Who am I kidding? Eventually, these mangy tresses are going to need some professional help.
I’m willing to wait this one out, though. Turns out I wouldn’t kill for a gorgeous head of hair. Not even close. I’m Catholic and I’m still feeling guilty about that sip of tea I took during the Bishop’s televised mass on Sunday. Can you imagine how guilty I’d feel if I accidentally infected some poor soul with a deadly virus?
No thank you.
I have a pretty complicated relationship with beauty salons anyway. I’m a little too squirmy for that whole process and the first time I got highlights in my hair I texted my daughter Katherine through the whole appointment. “Why is this taking so long?” “I think they forgot about me” and “I’m still here!”
Often when I get in that chair the stylist wants to be a little too helpful. On one appointment she dyed my eyebrows without even asking first.
“You’re going to love this,” she said before I even knew what she was doing. “You’re probably going to have to come in more often, but you’re really going to love this.”
I did not, in fact, love my new eyebrows. I’m sure I was wrong, but when you’ve spent a half century with your face, you’re a little leery of wholesale changes to it.
So, if you need me, I’ll be over here pretending I don’t look like a crazed lion with curiously mousey hair and waiting patiently for beauty salons to open in a way that scientists deem safe and effective.
I tell you, though, this whole situation is enough to make you want to pull your hair out.