When it comes to the topic of me and the wonderment that is my hair, I always feel a little pit of anxiety start to build deep in the core of my being and slowly rise to my larynx, until I scream absurdities in the mirror.
This is probably because I’ve been gifted with hair from some outer galaxy not in our cosmos. That's a fact Charlie. It’s curly, but it doesn’t stay curly without help from some goopy product. It was curly when I was a child, then it suddenly straightened out, then it got curly again in adolescence. It’s thick and frizzy some days, but then unbelievably flat the next. Sometimes it’s fantastically red, and then other times it’s a dark auburn. Occasionally it takes on the scent of whatever I cook for dinner, but sometimes it takes on the scent of what I cooked for dinner a week ago. It’s greasy one minute, and then desert dry the next.
Talk about rough waters to navigate! Because of its ever-changing nature, it’s always been hard for me to “fix” my hair. I’m never quite sure what will work, or if it will suddenly turn into a rabid beast and eat me alive. I’m not putting anything past this mane of mine.
Growing up, it was the same story, just with way more self-consciousness and DRAMA worked into it. Oh I forgot to mention I have a widow’s peak the size of Dracula’s or Eddie Munster’s. Maybe this is why I frighten some people. If you saw a 5’2” pale redhead with a widow’s peak coming towards you, would you shudder a little, whip out your garlic, and say a prayer? Yeah I thought so.
So later childhood into adolescence was a rough time for me and my hair because I actually cared what other people saw when they looked at me. Did I mention my mother always cut my hair? Bless her heart she did. I actually usually insisted she did because every experience I had with a “professional” stylist totally made my hair even nuttier. “Professionals” were responsible for the boy hair-cut I discussed here, and the way too tight perm that never should have been okayed by an adult. In their defense though, just like hobbits, my hair bows to no one. They had little hope of success.
I can’t believe I’m willingly posting these pictures. But I’m going for vulnerability here. It’s cathartic for me, and endearing to readers (so I hear). Behold the never-ending years of awkward:
The start of something very sinister. The bow is actually covering up bite marks I had given myself. Mother called it a birthmark, but deep down she knew better.
Not so awkward, but just to prove to you that my hair was indeed curly. I really wish the photographer had told me to tilt my head more though.
What the ridiculous? Mother?
Trying to manage it, any which way I could. Like my paint-by-number? Me too. I did it myself.
P.P.S I’ve started marking my own personal pictures because it makes me feel professional, and clever. Not sure if I like it or not. May discontinue in the future if I get lazy or indifferent.