What’s on my mind? Hair. Those of the male persuasion have not one clue how women suffer with their hair (And we have not one clue how men suffer with theirs. Just please don’t dye it yellow. You’re not fooling anyone).
Some women have too much hair; others, too little. Some women have wildly curly hair; others, a bit of a bend, while still others have hair as straight as an unforgiving preacher. Whatever kind of hair gel and genes give us, our hair is basically impossible.
Observe this Ordinary Woman, walking down the street. She looks so simple-minded as she whistles through her fingers, calling: “Yeah, bay-bee!” at muscular construction workers. Alas! They ignore her! Could the problem be ... her hair?
Okay, okay … This is me. Consider me a true-life example of what women endure.
Okay, okay … This is me. Consider me a true-life example of what women endure.
My hair grows fast. So fast, I need another haircut as soon as I leave the salon. My hair was practically buzz-cut in September; today, it’s past my shoulders. In the Guinness Book of Records, it oughta be.
So this is how things go down in the hair department. Women will recognize this scenario; men will be scratching whatever’s left of the full manes they once had.
Stumble from bed. See morning self in bathroom mirror.
“AI-YEEEE! %$#!”
Make crisis-call to salon: “Hair ... Hideous ... Urgent ... Immediate cut! Blah-blah-blah!”
Robotic voice of stylist: “Thanksgiving ... Hanukkah … Christmas ... First available appointment ... Blah-blah-blah ... Two weeks from Tuesday, 2020.”
Weeks limp by. Hair worsens. Even strangers and pets shy away. Day of The Big Cut finally arrives.
Stumble from bed. See morning self in bathroom mirror.
“My hair! It ... It’s beautiful!”
Shiny locks cascade past shoulders. Overhear whispered word “magnificent” several times. Immediately update Facebook photo.
Cancel long-awaited stylist’s appointment. Fake wheezy cough. Refer to “onset of Ebola” during call.
Accept construction workers’ compliments all day. Incited by hair, spouse makes wild, feral love - biting, snarling, lip-smacking. Fall asleep exhausted.
Stumble from bed. See morning self in bathroom mirror.
“AI-YEEEE! %$#!”
Make third crisis-call to salon: “Hair ... Hideous ... Urgent ... Immediate cut! Blah-blah-blah!”
Robotic voice of stylist: “New Year’s Eve ... Valentine’s Day ... First available appointment ... Blah-blah-blah ... Five days from St. Patrick’s, 2021.”
And that, gentlemen, is what women go through for you.
PS: I had my hair cut really, re-e-eally short, yesterday. I’m still sobbing. I look like Pablo Picasso.
PS: I had my hair cut really, re-e-eally short, yesterday. I’m still sobbing. I look like Pablo Picasso.
© Nicole Parton, 2019
