Scene at the Salon, photo credit (c) Likeitiz
I was at my hairdresser’s today for my usual haircut and color-my-grays-away session. It’s one treat I indulge in regularly. We talked hair for a few minutes. An inch off today? Yes, please. Color away the roots? Of course. She briefly steps away to mix my color, as agreed.
With all the changes in my body over the years, my hair has not been spared. The “Pause” does that to your body and all its accoutrements. I used to have naturally jet black straight hair with great body. I did not have to do a lot with it to make it look great. And if I missed a hair appointment here and there, no problem. A little snip and cut on my bangs and sides in front of my bathroom mirror and presto! I could last another few weeks without a trip to a salon.
Those were the days! In my mid-forties, I noticed the gradual coarsening. Then, the dulling. Then the cycles of filling the shower drain with balled up clumps. Then some regrowth. I cut my hair from almost halfway down my back to chin length. Then to just touching my shoulders. In the recent years, I’ve tried the Brazilian keratin treatment and a litany of shampoo changes. In the end, they have made hair management a little more sane. I could once again wash my hair in the morning, quickly dry it, forget about it, and go!
Why do we fuss so much over our hair? I think of cancer patients and I feel remorse for feeling so vexed about these piddly concerns. I see men and women with premature hair recession and I am thankful for still having a decent cap.
I see women with gorgeous tresses. I have always admired some who sport long sleek straight hair. You can tell they have been chemically straightened. They’re just so perfect looking. Not a strand out of place. Not a hint of frizz along the silhouette. I mentioned this to my hubby once. You know what he said?
“I don’t really like the look. It’s too severe-looking. It makes them look like they can’t fart.”
And with that, I stopped ever aspiring for that perfect hair.