On the outside, I’m pretty much as girly as they come. I love to wear pink and occasionally don a bow in my hair. I can quote from an extensive library of romantic comedies at the drop of a hat and getting a new dress is pretty much one of the most exciting things that can happen to me…aside from maybe a kiss from a cute boy. But yesterday was one of those days that seriously made me question if I was missing some sort of vital girl gene that every other girl on the planet seems to have in spades.
Here’s how it started.
A couple weeks ago I got a haircut from this fabulous new hairdresser and self-proclaimed new BFF named Cece. She was patient with me as I poorly described what kind of cut I would like and she made a noble attempt at interpreting my instructions while praising me for my virgin hair. We were fast friends. The cut she gave me was fantastic – the perfect blend of what I wanted combined with a few executive decisions of her own because, let's be honest, she knows what my hair can do much better than I.
Then came the overwhelming part. After she was finished, I was told that I could never use hairspray again. Cue dramatic music. Hairspray - an item that has been a staple in my life since before I entered Kindergarten. I tried not to panic. But really?!?! How is one supposed to live without hairspray? Thankfully she had other suggestions - a lot of them. I decided I needed to table my skepticism and accept that she was more educated on the matter than I would ever care to be.
So, with a sense of adventure and the humble realization that I know nothing about styling my own hair, I dragged my mom to Ulta in search of these holy grails of hair care products. The sheer volume of merchandise inside this store is enough to discourage even the valiant, but I was committed and thus an hour-long journey began. I searched through aisles and aisles of bottles and jars in every shape, size and color you can imagine. At one point, I even found my own mother pacing in a corner mumbling to herself. But rest assured, we emerged victorious with Cece-approved products in hand and an eagerness to explore a hairspray-free world.
Enter yesterday morning.
The moment of truth.
The hour of reckoning.
The point at which my girlhood was laid on the line.
A day that will live in infamy.
Need I elaborate on my lack of success? It was awful. There were bottles and cans and jars of product everywhere. My hair was curling in ways that I didn’t ask it to. Attempts to make it behave made it even more unruly. It looked wet even though it had been dried. And there was the frightening aroma of burnt feathers in the air. I looked like a sad, 80s rock star wannabe with hair so limp it kept me from making even the one hit wonder list.
I seriously considered jumping in the shower and starting all over. Then I looked at the clock. I was supposed to be on my way to work already but exiting the house looking like I did was not an option. I didn’t do justice to myself or the members of Flock of Seagulls. So I stuck my head under the sink in a final attempt at salvaging my dignity. With Pureology on my right and forbidden hair spray on my left, I was able to rescue myself from what very well could have been the worst hair day ever. I didn’t look perfect. But at least I looked like myself and that’s all I could’ve asked for in that moment.
Needless to say, I was a little late to work but that’s the silver lining of having a Mo for a boss. A bad hair day not only constitutes a personal emergency but a national crisis. If I had come in looking like I did just ten minutes earlier, he would have sent me home or asked me to wear a bag over my head. God bless him!
In the end, all was well. My hair looked decent and my tardiness was forgiven. But I think what frightened me most was my inability to work the simple tools that every girl seems to wield on a regular basis. When it comes to hair, I feel like a disgrace to the female gender. I have a repertoire of 2.5 hairstyles (the .5 is for one I know how to do but don’t really like that much) which I fear the universe is beyond tired of seeing. What’s wrong with me? Most women seem to have this innate ability to mold and shape their hair according to the occasion or the weather. Me? I’ve got two options. Neither of which excite me all that much. I panic in the event of special occasions. Special hairdo? Not so much. It's just not in my genetic coding.
So although I may appear to have the girl thing down, please know that the pink shirt and ballet lessons are merely overcompensating for the fact that I can barely do my own hair and makeup. I hope it's a recessive trait that my daughter gets. I fear for her if she has to learn this stuff from me.
