Over My Head

Y’all.

I need help. I am a mess around here.

Now, let me just make a little disclaimer first: this is about my hair. If you are a guy, chances are you are not interested in a protracted discussion of women’s hairstyles or the maintenance thereof, so you are welcome to scoot on out of here for the time being (but come back for my next scathing essay on televised sports) (not the Olympics – I love the Olympics).

A brief history of my hair. My mom was in charge of my hair until I was probably 14, preferring me to keep it long with blunt bangs. Somewhere around the age of 10, or, you know, the early eighties, extreme layering took over, and from there it was a short hop to what many of us now consider a most evil 4 letter word: perm. I did not know any better. And remember, early eighties. For better or worse, this was the thing. In junior high, I met a girl who was an expert French braider, and oh, how I desperately wanted that Swiss Miss style. So I started growing out my hair, and let me tell you, that was a stunning look for most of middle school. Throughout high school, I amassed an arsenal of accessories so that I could change my look (that was back to long with bangs) on a daily basis – barrettes, scrunchies, hot rollers, curling irons, omigawd banana clips, and tried to get creative while still keeping it simple (girls school rules, you see). I believe I had a few setbacks over the years (ahem, spiral perm, ahem – hey, early nineties I’m calling you out 90210), but pretty much learned what didn’t work on my head.

I have the best hairdresser in the world, whom I’ve known since I was 15, who ever gave me my first job. She is patient and sweet and knows exactly what I mean when I say I was a flexible style with lots of movement that doesn’t make me look like a soccer mom. Hey, I don’t even know what I mean by all that. She never screws over my hair, unlike other stylists I’ve tried (never again, don’t leave me Ana).

Ana facilitated the most beloved Christmas gift my husband has ever given me: a professional grade flat iron. You see, my hair, she is unruly, and thick, and heavy, and, well, kinky, if left to her own devices. It is almost naturally curly, but not quite. So my hair MO is to blow it out straight and tame the resulting poof with my treasured iron. I can get a couple of days out of that, since daily washing turns my head into a frizzy cauliflower.

Last week, that flat iron STOPPED WORKING. And lo, a darkness fell over the land (er, my house).

I’m thinking of fashioning a burka.

I decided to try to embrace the natural kinkiness of my tresses (until such time as a replacement iron can be acquired, and believe me that SOS went out within seconds of the death of Iron 1.0), but Ladies, I am woefully inept. I’ve worked with every cream, gel, mousse, and other potion in my cabinet, I’ve tried a diffuser, and I’ve scrunched and twisted in every conceivable manner. And yet, I’m looking a lot like Carrot Top. After an unfortunate encounter with an electrical outlet. It’s a little… trapezoidal.

Somebody help me. I’d really like to know how to deal with my hair on days when I just don’t have time for a full blow dry (or the option of flat ironing it into submission). And it could be (weep) days before my replacement iron is in hand (and hair). It’s just too cold to shave my head, and, well, my brother already did that, so that’s enough bald people in the family.

But I’m dangerously close to getting a turban and going all Golden Girls on you.