My hair has done all sorts of things, with and without my permission, over the past several years. Right now, this is the look I’m sporting:
It’s straight, slightly layered, and short enough to be low-maintenance. The sunglasses also are a pretty regular part of my look, more for practical reasons than style, although I do like the relaxed-headband effect.
Anyway, I like to think that this hair represents who I am: un-fussy, unflappable, classy and timeless.
The other day I caught my mom surveying me over the lunch table, her eyes narrowed and mouth in a critical frown in that “something is not right” expression that only a mother can pull off without offending. I began checking my lips, chin, and teeth for stray bits of lunch.
“I’m trying to figure out what your hair is doing.” she explained, when she saw that she had my attention. She leaned over to give me the mother-gorilla inspection, and then leaned back, her curiosity satisfied.
“I see,” she said, diplomatically. “Some of your hairs that are–well, another color–are not behaving the same way as your regular hairs.”
It took me a minute to figure out what she meant. After all, despite Nick Arrojo’s recommendation, my hair has always been only one color; I’ve always been too cheap and lazy to for highlights or dyes of any kind. Surely she couldn’t mean…
Oh yes, she did.
As if having two cowlicks and strange new-mom-bangs has not been enough, my hairline is also being graced with a rowdy crop of wild gray hairs. Despite my best efforts with the straightener and various slicking hair products, these wiry hairs are resisting all of my efforts to domesticate them. They prefer to reach for the sky and wave around in the air like little tribal dancers.
Now I have nothing against gray hairs. I’ve expected to go gray sometime in my thirties, just like a certain member of my family who shall remain nameless, with whom I share many physical similarities.
I’ve always planned to embrace my grays when they came, because I’ve assumed they would play by the same rules as my brown hair. If anything, they would represent my true self even better: un-fussy, unflappable, classy, timeless, AND wise!
But these strange hairs with a mind of their own are messing with my plan. I am not a chemistry professor, Rob Pattinson, an anime character, or any other sort of person who could pull off the every-strand-for-itself hair effect. So far I’m resorting to plucking out the offending hairs. We’ll see what wears thin first–my resistance or my hairline.