Hair! I was born with dark straight hair. By the time I was 2 I was a wavy haired red head. Then, along come ages 6 through high school. Except for those not-so-well thought out moments when I got perms, my hair was straight and blonde or brown. Dishwater blonde, some call it. My dad was much nicer. He called it honey blonde.
I wished for curls, though. I wanted the kind that came down in spirals and looked like a Mary Pickford portrait. I thought of this when I stood in the bathroom mirror at work trying to push my hair back down this morning.
At 43 my hair is auburn and curls. When it’s humid, I call it Hermione Granger hair. The early Harry Potter movies. I could only hope to ever have looked as pretty as Emma Watson’s later year.
The one movie I have ever gotten the lead in. Well–the only movie I ever got in at all was because of my humid hair. No matter how much I brushed it and brushed it, it sproinged back up. I swear it may have grown. The director may have been more impressed with my hair, then my actual acting. “Keep reading the lines. You look crazy.” I later found out he thought I had auditioned that way to fit the role. Not that it was an unfortunately cruel joke played by mother nature.
So, this morning, I put my hair up in this double layered pony tail. My hair pulled back, without the bangs that like to make me look like Cousin It and my hair looked just right. Spay. In place. My mirror isn’t whispering insults at me. Hair, mirror, clothing, and body are all harmonious. Then, I get about an hour into work and look in the bathroom mirror. The mass of curls on top of my head, looked like a red mossy bird’s nest was on my head. The curls laughed and danced around. It took a little work to hold them down. My hair finally gave. But, only if a good lock of my bangs was allowed to cover my eye. It may have been a thing for Lana Turner, but in the real world, it’s not comfortable.
People with straight hair long for curls and vice versa. We always want what we can’t have. Whether it’s the perfect body. Blue eyes instead of brown. Dimples or no dimples. Thinner. Fatter. Boobs. Less boobs.
How often do you look at a cat and think, Blech. That cat’s too fluffy. Or, that cat needs a sandwich. Not that the cat would argue. We love them as they are. Fluffy and sweet. Exotic and curvy. Crazy and skinny. Yes. I did describe my cats. Yet, I never fuss over their hair or what they look like each day. Although, the crazy, skinny one likes wearing makeup. She enjoys having the blush brush stroked on her cheeks, as is.
To be more like my cats. Then, I could truly enjoy my hair and body no matter what the day.
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