This morning, after my shower, when I was drying and styling my hair, I realized how relieved I am to have it back to my usual style. I have always loved long, flowing hair--on guys, on women, and I used to have long hair. So, a few months ago, I decided I’d tried to grow it long again, hoping that by putting in layers, it wouldn’t just hang heavy and straight.
Well, it didn’t work. It didn’t work in a bad, bad way.
A. I am NOT Farrah Fawcett, so stray, wannabe feathery wings NOT make me look like her. I never even aspired to look like her. Not that I don’t think she was pretty, but I’ve never aspired to blondness. If I were blonde, I’d be hideous. I’m just not cut out for the pale hair/pale skin look. And her hair style? Does NOT flatter my face.
B. I used to have waist-length hair. It had tons of split ends. It gave me headaches. My hair grows fast, very fast, and it’s thick. The minute it gets beyond a certain point, I lose the volume and wave in it (I do have a natural wave—hey, my hair has curves, just like me!). And it hangs there, pulling on my scalp. But at a certain point, between medium and long, it has the “That Girl” flip to the end…and again, does not work on me. Especially with the pseudo-Farrah Fawcett feathers.
So, by last week, about twelve weeks into trying out the new style, I was avoiding mirrors and cringing when I had to go out to a store. I looked older than normal, my hair made me feel frumpy and messy.
I tell my husband I need to go to the hair dresser because I hate my hair.
Samwise: “You look beautiful. I love the way you look.”Me: “No, I do not look great. I look frumpy and I feel like I look older.”
Samwise: You look beautiful.”
Me: “Um, you may think so but I don’t. I feel frumpy.”
Samwise: (just keep repeating the above until I just smile and kiss him and go call the hair stylist)
So Tuesday, I head to the salon and my hair stylist, Marta (a genius) takes one look at me and says, “I see what you mean. Yes, we have to do something about this.”
Relieved that someone finally *gets* what I was talking about—and the one I most needed to understand—I smile and say, “Take me back to normal.”
Half an hour later, I am back to my usual, semi-cheerful self. And I’m not cringing when I look in the mirror anymore because my hair is no longer pretending it’s Animal impersonating Farrah Fawcett.
And my husband? He looked at me as I got in the car and said, “You look beautiful.”This time, I just smiled and nodded.
How does your hair affect your moods? Or does it?