Lackluster Locks

Today I would like to talk about my hair. Go ahead--sit down, get a drink, prepare to be fascinated!

If I were to write a personal ad for my hair, it would read: 42-year-old chevelure seeking hirsute companion for romantic dinners and walks on the beach. Thinly built, a bit poofy without conditioner. Often uncooperative and difficult to control. Sometimes resembles a dandelion in the morning.

My mother, who shares my hair texture, calls it "our English hair." Together we kept the perm business in operation through at least two decades. In the genetic lottery, my sister inherited her beautiful, lovely, wavy locks from my father. But I got the cute feet! Oh, wait, no, she got those, too. Dang it. But I persist in loving her anyway. I've spent my life in a metaphorical headlock (ha! head! lock!) with my hair, using volumizing shampoos, blow drying it while holding my head upside down, curling it, ratting it; you name it, I've done it. And pretty much to no avail, because my hair is just going to do what my hair is going to do, which is mostly lying flat against my head.

So the other day I went into hair crisis because it was once again lying flat against my head and refusing to budge. I tried pinning it up this way, pinning it up that way, but I could do nothing to resuscitate it. It looked nothing so much as a hairy version of last year's bird nest. Clearly it had gone past its due date. So I quick called the salon and declared a hair emergency. "Cut it!" I said. "Cut it now!" The nice people, recognizing that special brand of woman lunacy, made room for me in their schedule and within hours, I was sitting in the chair. Diane, whom I had never met, drew the short straw and cheerfully popped up in the mirror behind me and asked me what I'd like to do with my hair. Shave it, I thought. Torch it. Dreadlock it for all the good it's doing me. But, instead, I had the same conversation with her that I've had with every other hairdresser who has cut my hair:

Me: "Oh, I don't know. What do you think?"

Diane: "Hm, well, let's see..." (She does her magic hairdresser thing of prancing around my head, pondering options, touching here, poofing there. She then picks up a book of hairstyles, flips through a couple of pages, and points proudly at a picture of a woman with a cute little flippy haircut.) "There. What do you think?"

Me: "Oh, um, sure. Looks good." (What I knew that she didn't was that that hairstyle would never look like that on my head. But I'm used to this and know the futility of trying to find the perfect cut for my hair, so I say nothing. It's just easier.)

Diane: "Great!" (20 minutes of clipping sounds ensues, followed by blow drying.) "Okay. Now since your hair is so fine, let me give you some tips on adding volume to your hair. Do you ever backcomb your hair?"

Me: (awkward silence)

Diane: "Do you know what backcombing is?"

Me: "Sure. Of course. No."

Diane: Small sigh. "All right, you take this hair here (she grabs a clump of hair near the crown of my head) and do this (she vigorously combs my hair backwards, toward my scalp). You can get a brush like this at Sally's."

Me: "Okay. Who's Sally?"

Diane: Bigger sigh. "Never mind. You can use whatever you have. Now, take a little of this volumizing spray--do you have some of this?"

Me: "Yes."

Diane: "Do you use it?"

Me: "No."

Diane: (Looks at me for a long while in the mirror, then seems to make a decision to ignore what I just said) "All right, well, spritz a little right here and then floof it a little with your fingers. Then flip this part of your hair forward..." (She flips my hair forward into my eyes, after which I can't see anything she's doing. I wisely say nothing because this woman carries around a pair of really sharp scissors in her pocket and she's working on my head) "...and work this part right here. When you're done, flip this hair in front back (Eureka! I can see!) and carefully finger comb it into place. Don't use a brush, just use your fingers. Think you can remember that?"

Me. "Sure. Of course. No."

Diane: (Definitely ignoring me now) "Great. Now when you're done with that, take this hairspray--it's very light and won't weigh your hair down--and spritz some on your fingers."

Me: "On my fingers? Not in my hair?"

Diane: (Closes her eyes and takes a moment) "No. Spritz it on your fingers, then lightly fluff it into your hair. The spray will stay in your hair."

Me: "Great!"

Diane (with a tone of deep resignation): "Yeah."

The two of us look at each other for a long moment in the mirror. Neither of us mention that my hair, while looking much better than when I walked in, looks nothing like the cute little full-volumed flip in the picture. It's as if we have an unspoken understanding to just end this as quickly and painlessly as possible. Quietly, she unsnaps the plastic cape and removes it, then walks me to the register.

She does not ask me to come and see her again.