The Wild Hair

I have fuzzy, frizzy hair. Always have and I'm guessing until it all falls out for good, I always will. Though, at the rate at which it is currently falling out, I could be bald soon. And that might not be a bad thing.

That being said, I still hate it when my hair falls out. It clogs every drain in a 7 mile radius. I find wayward strands lingering on walls, cushions, the floor, on the baby. And then there are those strands that somehow find themselves floating in that space between my back and my t-shirts, tickling the crap outta me when I'm trying to talk about serious stuff, like birth control with my gynecologist. Truth be told, I'm giving the huskies a run for their money in the shedding department.

I had decided to let my hair grow while cooking Rosebud. It got nice and long and so thick that my only option was to keep it tied up on top of my head. It's a shame I didn't have any gel or hair spray because I could have happily recreated those lovely hair styles Madonna sported back in the 80s. You remember them, the Desperately Seeking Susan type looks. Big bangs teased so viciously that they would poke strangers in the eye and then ask, "you wanna piece of me?" The rest of the do then held at bay by an enormous ribbon or scarf, tied with a bow that would make a Christmas present jealous. That kinda style.

I had thought about making an appointment to get my hair cut and wrangled into some sort of style but between the daily joy of laundry and screaming at my children, I somehow never managed to call the salon. Unluckily for me, Hubster got a pair of hair scissors with that new electric razor he bought last year. And I just can't resist scissors.

So there I was last week, hair pulled into clumps around my head, the insanity reaching it's peak as I tried to channel my inner Faye Dunaway when she portrayed Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest. Remember the scene? She sneaks up behind her daughter and just goes nuts cutting her hair? Well, safely tuck the daughter in bed and imagine old Faye/Joan doing that to herself. You get the idea.

The worst part about all this is that my neighbour here is a coiffer in the city. He works at one of the nice salons in the respectable part of town and I've been meaning to get myself in to see him. I feel horrible running in the opposite direction this week but I am afraid of getting to close to talk to him, just in case he has a really good luck at my locks and figures out what I did to myself.
But then again, he was ever so kind consoling me after my purple hair ordeal, perhaps I should confess and beg him to help me on that 12-step program from Stylists-Anonymous...

The one good thing about having such frizzy, fluffy hair is that when I do such crazy things to myself, I can hide the really horrible bits. And overall, my hair doesn't look that bad.

Well, at least when it's tied on top of my head or clogging the bathtub drain, that is.