I have been distracted by “important” subjects. Don’t blame me. Blame the world.
Between the bizarre American election (not to mention our home-grown comic book nominee) and the strange tale of Britain’s Brexit … and a variety of home-grown mini crises? Well, there’s just been a lot of serious distraction leaving little room for my own, entirely insignificant (internationally speaking) private crises.
Today, however, I rise to the surface to talk about a subject near and dear to me … my hair.
Over the years, my hair — once my pride and joy — has become closer to my “fear factor.” Of all the possible futures I imagined, none of them included a shiny domed bald self.
Each time (usually after some illness or other), my hair has grown back. After many medical near-calamities, it’s become fragile, as fine as cobwebs, and white (mostly). At last, it is one length all around. It looked good for a while, but then my granddaughter abandoned hair dressing for other pastures and my hair has been getting more shapeless every day since. This was actually not a problem until this most recent heat wave.
How come, if you start off with a perfectly even blunt cut, it grows in all different lengths? Shouldn’t it grow at the same rate and stay even?
Why, no matter what, if you go to a hairdresser, he or she will tell you he or she must chop off at least half an inch. Since hair grows an average of 1/4 inch each month, at that rate, you can’t ever grow your hair longer. And I need my hair longer so I can get it out of my way. I have to tie it up.
It’s on my neck, in my eyes. In my food. All over my clothing. I am a giant, shaggy dog story.
I bought a pair of sharp hair shears. When a lock of hair protrudes from its crowd of fellow travelers, I lop it off. Tidily. But off.
We are having a very hot (and humid) summer. I hate hair hanging on my neck. It’s sweaty. It feels like an itchy blanket. But it isn’t quite long enough to put up. Undaunted, I put it up anyway, sort of, wrapping it in one of the scrungy elastic and fabric thingies. Having tied it up, when I take it down, it looks horrible. Bent and strangely twisted. Flat and oil-slicked.
So I can I can choose to have it hanging around me and getting into everything, or I can tie it up and know it’s going to look like crap.
The world will go on and its problems will never end, but in this, at least, I am an optimist. Surely I can do something about my hair. Life needs to be about “the possible.” The rest of the world will have to take care of itself for a while. I need to fix my hair.