Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Advertising, Looks and Chops a Must, But No Big Hair!

I finally realized that when I hit a dry spell when it comes to blog topics, such as the case is this week, there's no shortage of things to expound on in my 100 Things list.

I'll start with the first two entries for now, both of which involve the color of my hair. Growing up, brown is the last hair color I wanted. Even red, with its attendant fussiness as far as clothing color choices, would have been a more desirable, exotic option. I had a good shot at red. I coulda been a contenda! My dad's side of the family couldn't be more Irish. Instead, I picked up mom's more Eastern European side (Polish and Czech). The childbearing hips weren't enough, you see. Y'all had to go and torture me with straight brown hair and a love of poppy seeds (all the better to fail drug tests with), too.

In high school, I took matters into my own hands. First, I shaved my head in such a way that the shaved part was only visible when I wore a pony tail. It looked super cool, and was multipurpose: it was the perfect style for looking badass in front of your friends, while still managing to look angelic in front of your parents, so long as there wasn't a stiff breeze. I should have patented it as a haircut for rebellious kids who are really big chickens under the rebel without a cause exterior.

I still remember the first time I shaved my head. "Chasing the Night" by the Ramones was blasting in the background. I used the electric shaver my grandma bought me for shaving my legs (not my head). I was only 14, but I felt ready to take on the world. Me and my little electric shaver. We were going to New York! To do...something! Something very bad and rock-star like! Yeah! That is, until Grandma saw me and damn near had a heart attack. I didn't feel so powerful then. Even less so when she called my mom into my room, and I sat on my bed while the two of them hyperventilated.

At 15, I moved on to coloring my hair. I didn't go too crazy (fear of the parents, again); I played it safe with burgundy and black. That's not to say I didn't get in trouble, but I would remind them that blue was my first choice, and I did them a favor in exercising such restraint. At 21, I started getting blond highlights. The first time was a straight-up disaster: the stylist first made them orange, then attempted to rectify the situation by covering my entire head with bleach and putting me under a dryer for a half hour. As she was washing everything out of my hair and I was having a freak-out she said, "Oh, chill out. One girl here today had her hair come out pink." Ahhhh, much better now!

Nevertheless, the highlighting (from other salons, natch) continued for about 4 more years, when I finally woke up one day and realized my natural hair color wasn't so bad, after all. It glints a reddish-gold in the sun. It gets natural caramel highlights in the summer. It only took 25 years to realize that I should enjoy it while it lasts, and with that, I stopped coloring my hair.

It's been a short run. I've been finding gray hairs, on average, once every other day for the last few weeks. The little bastards try to hide under my top layer of hair, but I am good. I always find them. And I'm not ready for these damn things. I figured not having kids would buy me a good 4 to 5 extra years of somewhat youthful appearance. I base that on nothing but my own presumptions, however.

When I complained to Jasclo earlier this week, she said she didn't notice any gray hairs. I said that was because I had been plucking the suckers out as soon as I find them. My stylist has been warning me not to do that, as the new ones supposedly grow back sticking straight up. But that's what pomade is for, right?

So here we are, full circle. I think by the end of this year I'll be going back to the blond highlights. Ah, natural hair color, we hardly knew ye.