Life is Sweet

Bad hair

I remember an old co-worker/friend commenting that she had inherited her “bad hair” from her Mom. I didn’t think she had bad hair. As a matter of fact, she and I had very similar hair. Fast forward five years, I’m starting to get it. I have bad hair. I don’t know that I inherited it, but well, it’s just bad. It doesn’t do what I want it to. No matter how much product I use on it, it still gets all fly-away and won’t stay down. It’s limp. It has almost no body of its own. I kind of hate my hair.

So why a post about my hair? I know, and I don’t even include pictures. It’s stupid. But I just feel like bitching about it right now. I’m seeing my hair therapist tonight. I hope she can do some good. But frankly, she’s no miracle worker. She can only do so much. I want to get it chopped off. But then last night, my husband, who never says a word about my hair, started in about how he loves the length and don’t get it cut off. What? I had finally made up my mind. I was thinking Jodie Foster in “The Brave One.” Pretty damned short. Now, Mr. Silent on the Subject pipes up? I’m so confused now. I don’t know what to do.

Normally I would say, you know, don’t let anyone tell you what to do with your hair. But I tell him what to do with his hair all the time. Mostly it goes like this, “Jesus Christ, Rob! Go get your hair cut!” And he says, “Never!” And it goes on and on like that, until one day I come home and his hair is gone. Like a true defiant one, he never gets his hair trimmed, he gets it gone. He hates the process so much that he figures he might as well as lose as much of it as possible in one shot and not have to return to the chair for six months to a year.

Now why can’t I take that approach?