I’ve always had “thick hair”
envy. Women would walk past me with manes
so thick they couldn’t find a band large enough to encompass their pony tail. I would
look at their hair longingly and bemoan my thin hair fate then reach upwards to
touch mine and was always disappointed. The hair clips in the store were too big for
my meager locks and would drop to the floor as soon as I fastened the clasp. My thin, fine tresses lay limply around my
face and on humid days it was matted to my scalp. Of course, I had to have a cowlick into the
mix as well. My bangs never lay flat no
matter how hard I tried.
I’ve used gel for lift, perms
to perform miracles, and enough hairspray to finance the manufacturer’s trip
abroad for a year and yet I kept trying to find help for my deficit.
During the late 60’s and 70’s
I wore my hair long and parted in the middle. Not such an attractive style for
everyone. Then there were those awful school
pictures that were taken year after year.
My hair was either oily, flat, or the photographer didn’t know where my
best side was. There is something about hair
that makes one want to burn all of their school pictures.
As the years began to add up
my hair gradually became shorter until I decided to take the plunge. When I was
21 I decided to have my hair cut short.
I was working at the shoe store then and made an appointment with a
stylist before work one day. Afterwards,
I went to the Health Food Store down the street from work and I saw my boss shopping. “Hello Alice,” I said, but she didn’t
recognize me. “I’m Jeannie,” I insisted.
Many of the regular customers that came into the shoe store didn’t recognize me
either that day. In the evening when I came through the kitchen door my father
saw me for the first time. Dad was
sitting in his favorite chair with his black framed glasses perched low on his
nose while he was reading the morning paper. As he looked up at me over his
glasses his jaw dropped. It took him a
few minutes to let the drastic change in the length of my hair adjust in his
mind. He never said a word.
A few weeks later, I rode
along with my parents to a store. My
mother went inside while my father and I waited in the car. My father watched me in the backseat through
the rear view mirror. He turned around and looked at me very closely. “You look good with your hair like that,” he
said, “You really do.” My dad never
complimented me before regarding my appearance.
I was thrilled and thanked him shyly. I pondered his words for many
years to come. From then on I kept my
hair short because my father approved and he never wasted words when they were
unnecessary.
I should be thankful for the
amount that I have. My situation could
be worse. The cause of my hair loss is
due to female patterned baldness, per a dermatologist’s diagnosis, which has
greatly affected my perception of old age. I didn’t come into this world bald and I
expect the same amount of hair on my head when I leave. Oh please?!
No comments:
Post a Comment
http://www.blogger.com/posts.g?blogID=6590297267502949744