Hairy Problems

I got my hair cut on Saturday for the first time in almost a year. This was partially due to negligence on my part and my hesitation to spend what I consider a ridiculous amount of money on someone using scissors on my head but also in part due to my terrible self consciousness about my hair.

Being a girl doesn't come easily to me. I mean, being female is fine and natural but being a girl, being feminine in the way of styling and fashion and whatever, does not come naturally. I have worn my make up the same since I first started applying it at the age of 14. I wear the same two or three pairs of shoes each week. I prefer velcro shoes to high heels and still haven't figured lipstick out. It would never cross my mind to carry a hairbrush in my purse. The clothes I select are generally designed specifically for comfort or for humor. I like to look pretty, but always take the easiest and shortest path possible which generally leads to appearing passable.

You can imagine how making a trip to the salon is difficult for me. Growing up, I got my hair cut once a year because I had long, wavy, horsey looking hair that was worn in a braid every day. There was no reason to get it cut more often. The woman who cut my hair charged $6. When I got to college, I started having my friend Claire cut my hair. She did a perfect job and did what I told her and we could do things like watch Beauty and the Best while she did her work. She did not charge me anything. You can imagine my transition to the world of hair in Washington DC. Difficult. It's all salons with loud music and trendy set ups. Everyone seems, or possibly is, arrogant. The women all walk in exuding confidence and seem like the kind who get their hair trimmed every six weeks like magazines tell you to. They go to the same stylist and they chat easily about what's new in their lives. They know how to sit still when their hair is being washed and to tell whoever is cutting their hair exactly what they want. They don't look in the mirror and giggle at how they look with the smock over their body or appear to be entertained by the fact that this is exactly what you would look like if you didn't have arms.

The thing that gets me truly nervous though, is my hair. Oh my hair. If you're reading this, you've seen my hair. It's super thick and wavy (though I try desperately to keep it straight). It's the kind of hair that has to be blow dried and then straightened or else you would end up looking like a cave woman. It doesn't fall nicely and if I let it air dry, I sprout an actual, bona fide, lion mane. When I sit down to have my hair cut and the person begins running their fingers through my hair (or tries to), their faces immediately change. It's always the same expression: This is going to take longer than I thought. And then they always compliment me in an annoyed voice: "Wow, you've got a lot of hair." Then they realize how it sounds and they quickly add, "I mean, that's great. Better than not having enough!" I am used to this, but it still makes me feel uncomfortable. The worst was when a man cut my hair. He started running his fingers through my mane and flat out said, "Wow, this is really bushy." Just what every woman longs to hear when her head is being described.

Growing up, I dreamed of having hair like Pocahontas. Long and straight, shiny, no curls. Or like Maxine Barbie, who also had long straight hair and in the commercial she would flip it over her shoulder and it would land in a blond splash over her shoulder. Jealousy. Since then I have watched women (women with the same gene pool as me) simply blow dry their hair and go about their day. It's a one step process that takes 15 minutes and they are out the door. I seethe. I whine. I whimper in the corner, drying my tears with my massive amounts of bushy brown hair.

All this emotion has led to massive amounts of self consciousness regarding the mop that resides on my head.

So this weekend I finally worked up the amount of courage it requires to get my hair cut. It had been a year after all, and the ends were split about 7 ways and it was too long and ratty to be controlled any more. I sat waiting for them to call my name, palms sweating, eyes scrutinizing every other head in the salon, silently cursing any deity I could think of for my own hair, cursing whatever fluke in the gene pool caused the atrocity that is my hair. When Leah (who had adorable short blond hair that stuck up fashionably and perfectly so that she appeared cute and quirky, but still lovely) called my name, I stood up and followed her to the chair. It was all the same, the comment: "WOW, You have lots of hair, don't you?" My internal response, "Oh, well spotted! Yes, I have lots of hair!! Congratulations, no one has EVER said that to me before!" My actual response, "Yes, sorry. I apologize in advance for how long it's going to take you to blow dry it."

And so I got my hair cut. Phew. Check that off the 2010 to do list.

Oh well. Hair is not a real problem, I suppose. Summary of this hairy monster of a post: My self consciousness knows no bounds and I will forever be the same uncertain girl I was at 12. Like you didn't already know that.