Another Hair-brained Idea

My niece received a large package in the mail the other day containing a head.

Specifically, a human female head with long, luscious locks of hair.

My niece is training at Paul Mitchell to be a licensed beautician and tells me this is a normal event.

She uses this head to practice on and resists the urge to nab pedestrians off the street.

I myself have never once dyed my hair, although cutting it off short about two years ago seems to have worked out nicely.

Hubby didn’t put my head in a box and mail it off to advance experimental science.

I am at a point, however, where some grays are showing up (a handful per child; more for the teenagers) and I’m looking into coloring it.

My hairdresser is super excited.

My girlfriends are dismayed.

“Your hair is such a rich brunette, why?” they say.

Because my grays are actually whites and I’m not into the Cruella deVille look.

The Irish in my blood line (we’d get into more mischief in general if we weren’t always working so hard in specific) tends towards dark hair, hot tempers, and an “act first, think later” mentality.

As I’ve made my peace with two out of three of these, it just feels logical to dye my hair red.

A deep, mahogany red.

Maybe gold highlights.

Does it come in copper?

I’m told that once I commit to coloring my hairs, I will have to “maintain” them forever.

Which doesn’t make sense to me.

Hair grows. Everything you do to it is, by nature, temporary.

My OCD and ADHD are thrilled about this, but Hubby acts like the world will end.

I ask my girlfriends, “How bad can it be? You just grow it out and start over, right?”

And they back slowly away in horror, hands on head.

They’ve stopped asking me what hair products I use.

We had to use the facilities at my niece’s place three months ago when our water lines burst.

Opening the shower door to go about my business, I froze.

There were, no joke, almost 50 bottles of product in there.

Where was I supposed to fit?

I looked at my little bottle of 2-in-1 shampoo and felt extremely inadequate.

This was yet another piece to the puzzle of why my daughters take 30 minute showers (“Get out already! You could’ve filled a pool by now!”) and I take five.

There can’t possibly be enough dirt on the planet that it takes that long to clean hair.

I can clean my whole house in that time frame.

With my 2-in-1 shampoo.

I reckon they just get lost in there.

There are a few things on my “bucket list”, and dying my hair is one of them.

I’m not going to be that elderly cat lady with orthopedic shoes and hair in a nice, sensible tweed.

I have an appointment with my hairdresser this Friday the 13th.

Seems fitting.

But if a head-sized box arrives on your doorstep…run.

The Upper Cut

It’s weird how none of my kids have ever liked to be touched on their head. They didn’t grow hair until they were one and are quite possessive with it.

When my daughters had enough hair to scrape together into pig tails, they would barely tolerate it. Hats, headbands, clips and bows were out of the question. I had to bribe them with videos while I french braided them, but it was a rare treat.

My girls inherited stick straight brown hair and the boys all received lush blond locks that grow out in curls. The girls tell me how stupid this is all the time. What can I do?

In an effort to help out the strangers who invariably guessed the wrong sex of my small children, I wasted a lot of time trying to plant hair bows on my girls and keep the boys’ hair trimmed up.

You would think cutting hair would be easier than styling it.

But no.

It’s a cage fight every time.

They square off with me across the arena, bobbing and weaving and feinting. If I can catch them off guard, duck in and pin them to the mat, I have a chance.

But someone will have to hand me the clippers.

It’s like shearing galloping sheep.

It’s like getting a growling Chewbacca ready for date night.

It’s like trimming hedges into a topiary. A banker-shaped topiary.

And I only have to the count of 10 to get the job done.

Round One:
Wait until the last possible moment of bad hair tolerance before attempting the job. Circle ‘Cousin It’ slowly. Wait for his hair to fall in his eyes before lungeing.

Round Two:
Corner victim onto the barber stool and clip a massive sheet around his throat. Get halfway done before he flaps around and finds the sheet opening.

Round Three:
Pull the bribe: “Here is a lolly for you while mommy cuts your hair.”
Pull the threat: “If you turn your head while I cut your hair, you will have a divot in your hairdo and I will leave it there!”

Round Four:
When he makes a break for it, pull the tears: “Please please please do not go to your high school graduation with hair longer and glossier than your sisters! Please Fabio!!”

This scenario happened, and was swiftly followed up with:
“Stop flipping your golden locks at me or I’ll sneak into your room at night and pull a Delilah.”

And that will be the fifth and final round.

At the moment my sophomore son sports delicious curls all around his head and he twirls them without realizing that he does. He will be engrossed in a good book, turning the pages with one hand and twirling his forelock with the other.

I’m thoroughly annoyed.

The President of the United States does not twirl his curls while pondering the state of the union. Not even George Washington. He pulled his wig into a proper ponytail and stayed focussed on chopping down the cherry tree.

It’s scary that my oldest just removed his own mohawk of three years’ standing. I have been chasing him with scissors for years with no luck.

So I really can’t imagine what he’s going to do next.

How awful can it be to have a nice conservative banker’s haircut? Maybe a little movie star edgy but definitely a head of hair that looks like a million bucks?

You could sell ring-side tickets to our haircut events. The amount of hair that hits the canvas would make a rug.

We usually go the distance.

And once in a while, my son is a knock-out.

Don’t get excited. It won’t last.