I AM my hair...*

I’m at the hairdresser, getting my roots done and while I sit here looking like an alien with a whole roll of tin foil on my head, wearing a leopard print cape (is this the place for me or what?) I am thinking about my hair. I have a theory that, as a grown woman, your hair is a reflection of your life circumstance and what you consider important.

Now to begin fully informed, I have a shit load of thick, unruly hair. Seriously, my hairdresser frequently asks me to book appointments at the beginning of the day so she has the strength to blow it out. It has a weird texture that is neither curly or straight and it must be coaxed with heating elements to take on either of those characteristics. I have never had, except in childhood, hair that was wash and go and once I hit my teenage years, an inordinate amount of time was spent taming my mane.

Currently, I have absolutely no time for my hair. But in the days before kids, I would spend forty-five minutes a day blowing it out before work. Today? I spent six minutes scraping my hair back into bun, blowing out my bangs and using an old can of Pantene to hold down the flyaways. I can not imagine the luxury of being able to spend so much time purely on my appearance as in the old days. This is my point exactly, my focus right now is no longer on myself, it is on my children. My workday hairstyle is functional, it keeps Little Man from grabbing my locks with his peanut-buttery hands, or myself from becoming overheated as I chase him around the playground. I have referenced before, the putting up of hair that young women partook in upon reaching adulthood, back in the time of hoop skirts and I feel that is exactly right. My time to be totally frivolous and self-centered has passed and my ‘do reflects that.

So one might ask, why not cut it all off and stop lamenting the fact you never get to wear your hair down? Because I love my hair. When my hair is clean and blown smooth and scented with the perfume I only wear when I go out, I feel like the “pre-kids” Mary. Don’t get me wrong, my hair is an appropriate length for my age, just an inch or two below the shoulders. In my opinion, too long hair on a woman over thirty-five is like wearing a t-shirt that says “President of the Trying Too Hard Club”. Does anyone remember Crystal Gayle? I also refuse to cut it because I have to believe at some point in the future I will have more time than most people take to fix their coffee to fix my hair. My ponytail may annoy me with its constant reminder that I am last on the priority list around here, but it also is a symbol of promise. The promise that my old self, who I only see in glimpses, will be coming back, full time, soon.

I asked H over coffee the other day what I will do with my unruly crowning glory once I’m too old to sport a ponytail. This I feel, loses its appropriateness sometime in your forties unless you are partaking in an athletic activity, making you look like you are playing dress-up (kind of like women over twenty who wear pigtails when not in a Halloween costume). Then I caught myself, thinking Little Man will be in first grade by that point and if I don’t have time to blow it out, I’ll be so irritated, maybe I will cut it off. After sharing this with H, he made his feelings clear quipping, “And I will tell you to your face you’re ugly.” Guess I’m not the only one who doesn’t want me to cut my hair.

*Props to you if you picked up the India Arie and previous post reference.