I think I’m sending mixed signals.

My hair says, “Let’s go to the beach, people! Let’s go right now! Drop everything you’re holding and let’s go, or you are a complete waste of my time!” The rest of my appearance says, “Let’s complete a logic puzzle right now! Or a book! Yes, a book! Come on! YAY! Wait, why are you giving me that face?”

I know I’ve talked about my hair before. You’re sick of it. I get it. But it’s been a bit of a problem area in my life at times. For example, in middle and high school, it was just a really large mass on my head occupying a small country’s share of real estate. It commanded so much of my attention that I was barely able to exist back then, let alone navigate the social and educational minefields that I was trying to meander through. By college, I was able to negotiate an uneasy truce with the mass on my head. We’ve had some good times and some bad times since then. There was a time where I thought it would be a good idea to get a perm (!!!) on the advice of a hairstylist who had surely been sent to me straight from Satan himself. I was able to hunker down and wait for the perm to grow out. I made it through ok, and my loved ones were ok as well. I’m reasonably certain that I didn’t harm any strangers in those long, long months waiting for that perm to grow out, but I really can’t say for certain. People have eyes, you know. I can say that no civil suits were brought against me for pain and suffering caused by the sight of my voluminous, frizzy hair explosion, so I consider that a personal victory. Recently, I’ve grown to actually like, if not love, my hair thanks to the curly hair-trained specialists at Bombshell who taught me some key styling steps as well as to NEVER BRUSH MY HAIR. You’re aghast. Or you’re not surprised. I don’t know. But with curly hair, brushes are to frizz as blogging is to oversharing. Wait, that’s not a good analogy. Let me try again. Brushes are to frizz as …. You know what, I’ll let it stand. I’m thinking back to some of my posts, and the analogy isn’t that far off.

I was meeting with my business partner a couple of days ago (I’m starting a business! YIPPEE!!), and she mentioned offhandedly that I was a preppy. And I immediately dropped my head in shame, as you should when accused of this, and conceded the truth in the statement. I’ve never veered from this awful state of dress. It’s saddening. I wish I’d gone through a fun goth stage to mix things up at least. Sure, with my crazy locks, a goth stage could not be sustained for long, but preppy is not a look that goes with my head suit either. When I first met one of my college roommates, I distinctly remember her slam on my ridiculous number of khakis. She called them tackies. I remember thinking to myself, “Good one, Lisa,” while struggling mightily to come up with some sort of retort. She wasn’t dressed much better — it wasn’t a great time for fashion — but the slam was legendary.  But I dress very conservatively. Like a banker. Or an accountant. Nothing against those professions, obviously. I’m married to a banker, and I think he’s all kinds of hot. But if you look at me while shielding your eyes to block out my hair, you might want to hand over your tax paperwork to me, so I could prepare your taxes. Let me caution you not to do that, however. You will not get a refund. You will probably owe the government thousands of dollars. However, I could compose a kick-ass letter to the government, which I could submit along with that hefty check you’re sending them (incorrectly, because I did your taxes wrong in the first place, but why do you want to focus on the negative, huh?) that would convince Uncle Sam to send that check right back to you along with a bunch of extra cash. OK, maybe not. But I could compose a kick-ass letter to the government that would make them chuckle. How about that? Does that help? Probably not. Anyway, it was probably inevitable that this stupid style of dress would stick forever because I was obsessed when I was an impressionable kid with this book.  I was too young to be the target audience, but I enjoyed reading it because it was funny and ridiculous. I already dressed similarly, so there was stupid validation within its plaid cover. Way to go, Birnbach. This is all on you.

The Official Preppy Handbook
The Official Preppy Handbook

You’ve got ~50 years before you need to resort to that hairstyle. Why start now?

What is up with the combover love in middle schoolers? I’m sure it can be traced back to the Bieb, but he’s upgraded his hairstyle and hasn’t worn that for years. I just don’t get it. It is not flattering, and I’ll assume we don’t have a follicular failure that necessitates the imitation of Donald Trump, so I’m at a complete loss. What questionable looks will they be sporting next? Black socks pulled up to the knees with white walking shoes? Fanny packs? Crop tops and overalls?

 

 

Listen. I know you’re lying.

I’ve heard many people of the straight-hair persuasion talk about how they wish they had curly hair. All the while they are swinging their glorious, shiny, straight hair and looking so pulled together and, well, tidy. There’s a better word, but untidy is the word that I associate with my head suit, so I’m going to use its opposite. I’ve had conversations about hair with you people, and I’m looking at your beautiful heads of hair as you’re saying, I wish I had curly hair.  Of course you’ve never told me you wish you had my hair though you try to pretend that you are including me in the curly-hair community of which you say you’d like to become a member. But you’re looking right at the mess on my head. It would require the ability to maintain a straight face that nobody possesses to sell that statement, so I applaud you on your restraint. So when you say you wish you had curls, it’s based on the curly-haired peeps in mags and on tv, etc. Because curly hair looks kinda effortless, right? I mean it’s all over the place, and you can’t get a read on what exactly is happening up there, so it’s gotta be easy to achieve. But I’m here to tell you that at least in my case, curly hair is a nightmare requiring stupid amounts of haircare products (Don’t believe me? Check out this post.) that only work in certain humidity conditions; or in certain temperature conditions; or when you hold your tongue just so when applying the product; or if you count backwards from 29 while applying the product while wearing only one sock; or if you consume a drink made of groundhog tears, bat saliva, and moose urine before applying the product.

Most days I end up with an 80’s hair situation where my hair enters and leaves rooms minutes before and after I do, and a 5-foot perimeter is wordlessly established around me by fellow space sharers to allow safe passage. If I actually get my hair looking halfway decent, I might catch sight of it in a mirror just 20 minutes later and see that it’s now gone to total shit up there. I’d need a squadron of mini hairdressers in my mane non-stop to help keep things in order for just 4 hours let alone an entire day.

This is sector 1 reporting in. All is under control. We have a few corkscrews, but nothing we can’t manage. We have some minor frizz sightings, but nothing like what we see over in sector 2. Over.

This is sector 2 reporting in. We have a major frizz situation. We are having trouble seeing anything else through the haze of frizz. Clearly the fool didn’t apply any frizz control despite the humidity levels. We’ve sent in 5 of our strongest to tame it, but we lost contact with them long ago and it doesn’t look good. We’ll keep you posted. Over.

This is sector 3 reporting in. We’re dealing with a curl to wave ratio that is seriously out of whack. We’ll be back in touch when we know more. Over.

This is sector 4 reporting in. People, we are all clear. All looks good in sector 4. We are just as shocked to report it as you are to hear it. Over.

This is sector 5 reporting in. We have a product mismatch situation. The idiot applied cream today when we needed a gel. AND she forgot to make sure the hair was at the correct level of dampness. We just…..I mean it’s unbelievable how many times…. Look, we’re not miracle workers. Over.

This is sector 6. We have an emergency. Repeat. We have an emergency. We have a random, completely straight section sticking out from her head over here. It’s sizable and appears to be waving for attention. It makes her look cracked. She cannot afford that!!! Over.

This is sector 3. We’ll be right over. We just got the situation over here under control. Don’t even ask us what it took to get that accomplished. Over. 

So most days I just say ….. Well, I think you can just guess what I say, since, so far, I haven’t unleashed any major profanity bombs here. And my hair is an unstyled tribute to crazy town.