Hair

My hair looks the same as it did when I was in junior high school, except it is not dyed blonde but rather streaked with moonbeams. Fine and straight, it flies away from the slightest breeze. My beloved suggested volumizer. It made my hair all poofy.

For that brief period of time between the last episodes of Bonanza and the early episodes of the Smurfs, I dabbled in hair product. I had serious perms. I lightened my hair. I am not sure if I ever used a gel, but I did blow dry it a couple of times. Then I got in touch with my inner hippie and set my hair free.

One year, there was talk going on in the junior high hallways about some great homemade hair conditioners. The first one was mayonnaise, just coat your hair with it, let it sit, and rinse. You would have beautiful, shiny hair in minutes. The second involved whipping up some eggs and then putting them into your hair to soak into the hair shafts. Rinse, comb, and there you have it, Farrah Fawcett hair.

I decided to try method #2. I whipped up 6 eggs and massaged them into my hair. What a frickin mess. I put my egg smeared head under the faucet and began to rinse out the slimy goo. The warm water felt good on my skin. Once I felt the slime was all gone, I turned the water off and dried my wet head with a fresh towel. But alas, what were those rubbery pieces of yellow and white sticking to the towel? Oh no. The eggs had cooked. It was days before I was able to comb the poached chicken embryos out of my hair.

I was an athlete when I was younger, and on one road trip when I played basketball for Lake Michigan College, I got this hair-brained idea (no pun intended) to dye my hair. We were staying in a hotel, so I sneaked out to the nearest store and bought a bottle of Clairol. My teammates and I worked diligently to change my hair color before our coach came around. After the final rinse, I removed the towel and saw the brightest color of orange I had ever seen in my life staring back at me in the hotel mirror. I was aghast! Another stealth trip to the store to buy color remover and I was saved. I bet the clerk cracked up all night remembering the young girl wearing a stocking cap with pieces of bright orange hair sticking out of it. Back in those days, pumpkin colored fur on top of one's head was considered odd.

Me with braided tails of pig. Photo by C. Bach.

Since freeing my hair, I let it grow and flow. It is now long enough for me to have various forms of animal tails, braided pig or a long pony. It no longer has the Breck Girl shine but is instead frosted with moonbeams, well-earned symbols of wisdom. I was born a blonde and I will die a blonde. Go ahead, Secretary of State's Office, put brown on my drivers license. I am a scientist. I have looked at my hair under a microscope. IT IS STILL BLONDE!

I figured out a long time ago to buck fashion trends, because I never want to look at an old picture of me and think "Oh my god how could I have worn glasses like THAT!", or "Who cut my hair like THAT?" If I keep everything the same, I never cringe when looking at a 20 year old picture. Works every time.

So I get my hair trimmed once a year (or twice if my beloved forces me to). I let it air dry, I let it part on its own. My hair is free range and organic. And I love it that way.

The moral of the story is this. Next time you think about getting the latest do or putting product on your head fur, look at one of your old photo albums and ask yourself, is it worth it? Remember, your do today is your mullet of tomorrow.