It Was The Curls!
For as long as I can remember, my hair has been difficult.
Partly due to my boomer status. I grew up not even knowing the word ‘PRODUCT’ let alone the miracles it could bestow on my very straight, very fine hair.
No, I was only familiar with V05 when my attempt to add glamour to my Jr. High look instead turned me into a greaser who looked like I'd never shampooed, even after multiple washes to try to get that grease out.
In my Sr. Year of High School, a stylist took pity on me and turned my head into a thousand tiny braids, then pin-curled them close to my scalp before tossing me under the dryer. Oh my goodness, for about 72 hours, I had the most delicious curls. In truth, the delicious part wore off faster than that, but I was reluctant to wash the frizzy miss because I had wanted curls for so long.
I remember driving to Chickasha, my college town, and sitting in my car with the window down in the space closest to the main drag. I knew the curls made me pretty, and I waved at everyone going past. People were so much friendlier than my shyness had let me believe, and that sealed the deal. IT WAS THE CURLS. My sudden curl-induced extraversion had nothing to do with it.
In college, since I couldn’t have curls, I opted for color instead. At 17, I started putting red in my hair and spent the bulk of my adult life arguing that it did indeed come straight from a bottle.
Note: College does not yet qualify as adult life. My hair was cut short and colored an exceptionally bright red hue. I don’t know if the additional colored mousse was meant to tone it down—but my hair turned Fire Engine Red, and on that morning, it wanted nothing more than to fly its fine self, straight up four inches in the air like a flag for all to behold. It could not be tamed.
I tried to tiptoe into Steve Brown’s graphic class, already knowing he was never kind to anyone daring to come in late. To my surprise, his only comment was, “Come in, come in, sit down. Maybe your hair will settle.”
Art alums still pull out that memory from time to time and dissolve into laughter.
My self-esteem has survived Farrah Fawcett hair in my teens, a mullet in my twenties, and more shades of golden brown to red than I can count for most of my adult life. And then the red stopped holding. My hair had stubborn white streaks that previously tried to hide at the temple but became increasingly determined to stay visible. It was time for a change.
This time, I didn’t mean a simple change, like shaving it off, which I did on a bet before a week-long rafting trip. This was more dramatic for me.
I went blonde.
My first attempt in the bathroom with color, toner, and friends came out pretty much as you'd expect.
Badly.
That’s when I took my $200 over to the Blonde Bar to at least have a good starting point. I had never envisioned myself a blonde, but it was remarkably close to my hair color at the age of six.
And then, when I was 60 years old, a miracle happened. Menopause decided that, along with smelling like an adolescent boy, I should receive the curls that I had always longed for. I didn’t even recognize them at first and argued with a stylist that I had fine, straight hair. It was such a new way of thinking and oh so many more products to learn about.
People say that blondes have more fun; the only evidence I can offer is anecdotal. My blonde head covered in curls is how I met my Alby. So, perhaps it’s true.
My curls stayed with me for 4-5 years and then said, “Peace out. I’m done with you.”
And they left. Rude.
Without Alby here rooting for the blonde, I’ve let myself go gray. I wish it were gorgeous silver with dark undertones, but that won’t happen. My hairdresser said she couldn’t even lie to me and say, sure we can do that. Maintaining that color is well beyond my budget.
Now my biggest worry is how much of my hair comes out in the sink each time I wash it. If you see me with peptides, collagen, biotin, and minoxidil, mind your own business. I’m just trying to retain some of it.
If that fails, this grannie will be out wig shopping. Truth.
