You are an important part of my life. Without you, I’d be bald… You keep my head warm on the (deceptively) few cold days here in H-town winters. But in recent years, your rebellious behavior has not only become self-destructive, it has hurt me and those most dear to me.
Hair, this is an official Hairntervention. Because I care.
You’ve not always been a problem to me. My mom is another story. Remember when I was little and wanted to grow you long? Your curly frizziness, while ridiculously cute on a little girl, completely stymied my red-headed mother (secretly because you reminded her of her own thick Orphan-Annie-like locks which she meticulously straightened every day). So I admit it couldn’t have been fun for you to spend my childhood chopped short. And the humiliation of do-it-yourself bangs can’t have been a cakewalk. I get it. But you bounced back – literally. My mom’s horror when, in eighth grade, I announced that I was going to not only let you grow, but – gasp – let you go natural, was palpable. And audible to the entire neighborhood, if I remember our ‘discussions’ correctly.
But you loved it. And I loved you. Hey, it was the 80’s. The bigger, the better – right? Worn curly, I easily had Edie Brickell/Julia Roberts hair. And straightened and curled – well, Aqua Net had no bigger advocate than us. We were the Dream Team of height and volume.
Where did you start to deviate from the straight and narrow? (Pun intended). The 90’s.
Remember the time I went into the salon and cut you into a Rachel? You revolted. You rebelled and turned me into a late-Brady-Bunch Florence Henderson lookalike, complete with flip. A Complete Hair Nightmare. I should have taken the hint.
Part of me knows that it’s my fault. I’m sure I traumatized you in college when I asked my roommate to iron you – literally – to get you straight. But you gave me no choice. You always turned into the Dreaded Triangle Hair whenever I tried to straighten you myself. And I know you remember the indignity of the Keratin treatment from last year. But honestly, I was at my wits’ end with your misbehavior.
I loved you when I was pregnant. Your curliness gave me lovely Edie Brickell hair every single day without the least bit of effort. You really seemed like you were on your way to recovery.
And then I became a mom. You fell out. You fell out, abandoned me, and decided to come back completely changed. Curly underneath, yes, but on the surface – wavy at the roots and nasty-frizzy-straight on the ends. And so thick that you are any stylist’s nightmare.
Take Barry-turned-Bree’s comment at my last blowout: ‘Well, I hope you’re not in a rush!’ (Said very snippishly, I might add.)
Today I have to resort to forcing the Chi on you, just to maintain order. If I cut you short, you rebel and won’t straighten. If I grow you long, you laugh at me, revolt and become so unmanageable that I have to resort to the daily ponytail.
I’m at my wits’ end. I care about you, but you need help. Maybe the serenity you seek can be found in a 12-Step program. You could pilot the HAA chapter in Houston. But we can’t go on this way. So I’ll keep sending you good vibes and hot oil treatments in the hope that you’ll realize you need help.