Thursday, September 25, 2008
Some people would avoid going to the dentist at any cost. Some dread a flu shot, or have nightmares about their next colonoscopy. But me? I dread the hairdresser and their scissors of destruction.
It pretty much takes me a year to grow three inches of hair. I unwittingly said goodbye to five yesterday when I went for a "trim."
"The ends are dead? Fine, go up to two inches if it really needs it." I said, trying to be reasonable.
Before I could pat myself on the back, I watched aghast as the poor, innocent, chestnut locks fell to the floor like little angels. It was like going to get your nails clipped and losing an arm.
Why the fuss? It takes a long time to grow out curly hair. It just spirals up ... taunting me and defying gravity. But more importantly, your hair is a vehicle for expression ... when it looks right you feel beautiful and put together. When it's a mess you feel like an unkempt ragamuffin. My curly mane gave me an added sense of identity. Once the ballsy woman with the wild hair, I am now looking into being a professional Raggedy Ann impersonator.