This simultaneously fills me with great glee and a sense of horror. I have not always honored the locks I was born with and I've done horrible, terrible, no good things to the grass growing atop my head.
It started off as a small child, when my mother allowed me to wander through my early years looking like a greasy haired little boy. Things didn't improve much as I ventured into my early teens.
Can we say awkward? It was no wonder I was the class dork for my junior and senior high school years. It never really got any better than that either. I went through the mullet phase, the spiral perm that morphed into a giant oversized triangle on my head and the perpetual pony tail phase.
I had hoped once I grew up, grew boobs and some self confidence, my follicles wouldn't find themselves so challenged. I was convinced one day I would wake up with luscious locks and the skills to maintain them.
I'm still waiting for that day. Not for the boobs though. Those sprouted and currently sit right above my belly button. I can tie them in a knot. You are so welcome for that mental image.
But with tomorrow's appointment fast approaching, I'm once again stricken with delusional thoughts of grandeur and high hopes for a hair miracle. I dream of walking out of the salon with luscious locks instead of the baby fine, stringy style I'm currently stuck with.
In an effort to repeat past disappointments, I decided to revisit hair styles of yonder. And share them with you. So y'all can learn from my mistakes.
Some of my hair travesties of yore include, of course, the infamous Oreo Cookie hair style.
At the time, I thought this cut was the cat's arse. Until my mother showed up with the exact same hair colour and a similar style. We were twinsies. Which made me feel less than young and vibrant. (No offense Mom.) There is nothing worse than your mother getting your very same hair style only to rock it better than you do.
There was my winged look. I don't even know what I was thinking.
But I'm pretty sure if I jumped off a cliff I'd have been able to hang glide myself to safety courtesy of my hair.
Then there were the boy looks I tried to rock for years. Because nothing screams sexy like having the same hair cut your brother and husband have.
First up we had red.
Then we had light brown/dark blonde.
And then there was my attempt at rocking the Brigette Nielsen look.
To be fair, I really liked the short hair cuts, but my husband was less than thrilled with them. He's a bit of a caveman that way, preferring his girls to have long feminine locks. I preferred being able to wash and go. But I'm a dutiful wife who lives to serve so I grew out my hair to please my man.
Stop laughing. It's true. Kinda. Okay, fine. I got tired of the constant trims required to keep it from looking shaggy and after the painful growing out period I vowed to never shear my hair that short again. Details, details.
I've been red.
I've been brown.
I've been natural.
And I've been really blonde.
But the question begs, what do I want to be now? I have this yen to shear it all off and dye it black but my husband has this yen of not crawling into bed and finding his wife looking manlier than he does sprawled out beside him.
Personally, I think the path to happiness lies in having a little schizophrenic hair tendencies. Change is good, hair grows back.
(I can hear my husband screaming WRONG!! in the background. Even when he's not here I can't escape his opinions. Damn.)
So tomorrow I am going to march into my very favourite salon and hand myself over to my stylist and tell her to make magic happen. Magic being the code word for miracles.
Because maybe when she finds my hair style, I'll have found a little bit of the something that seems to have been lost along the way of raising and burying my children. Or at the very least, I'll have some new pictures for my gallery of hair travesties.
Blog fodder for the win!
*Share with me people. Worst hair moment of your life. Also, opinions welcome on what to do with what sits on my head. Best comment wins absolutely nothing but my eternal gratitude. You lucky people you.*