My hairdresser must cringe when she sees me coming. You ladies all know what I’m talking about. Everyone one of us, at some point, has walked into the hairdressers with a picture in our hands, held it lovingly next to our face and said, “I want my hair to look like that.” What we are really saying is, “I want my life to look like that, please Fairy Godmother, please!” Right now you guys are saying, “It’s just hair!” Oh no, you’re wrong, it’s never ‘just hair’, it’s the stuff of dreams.
Every movie involving a female’s major transformation begins with her hair having serious problems. It is usually in tangles, long enough to be in her eyes and flying all over the place. All is finally made right when she emerges, announced by some servant at the top of the stairs, with her hair well groomed and up in an elaborate ‘do’. The fantasy: everything works out with a simple trip to the right hairdresser.
This is clearly a ploy by the hairdresser mafia, a small, but powerful group that has been secretly ruling the world since ancient times: Revealing book to follow.
I have yet to meet a woman who likes her hair. We might have days that we think it looks alright, or moments, when it looks pretty, but it has so much hairspray a tornado could take it right off our heads and on to a cow 100 meters away, without a hair falling out of place.
What we all want, moment by moment, is gorgeous free flowing tresses. We want to rise from our beds in the morning, our hair already in place, our admirers waiting in the hallway with bated breath.
“You should see mom’s hair when she walks, it’s amazing” one slipper toed drooler would say to the other.
“Do you think we should draw on the wall?” asks the one handing out crayons.
The oldest, would shake her head, horrified and say, “No way, mom’s hair is perfect.”
If only it could be. Until then I had better make an appointment to get my hair done. This time I think I’ll just bring a picture of a neat and tidy room and four, squeaky clean, well behaved children and see how far I get.