Dead protein. That’s all that hair is. But we still make a pretty big deal about it.
I managed to make it 45 years without being self conscious about my hair. Growing up with a hairdresser mom gives lots of opportunity to try different hair. Red hair is the only one that I would absolutely not revisit. (If you hear me saying I’m thinking of dying my hair red, know that I am trying to communicate with you in code.)And of course said hair dresser mom always complimented my hair. So imagine my shock when this happened…
We were on a family vacation to Cabo. I did not wish to put even the slightest amount of effort in to my hair. Beaches in Mexico are market places for many a thing. I hadn’t really planned ahead for such parenting conversations such as “hey, uh,…yea….so we’re clear,…please don’t buy cocaine from well-dressed gentlemen walking up and down the beach lightly tapping their noses.” Over the years, I’ve covered “drug are bad” speeches, but the increased accessibility demanded booster informative lectures.
In betwixt cocaine dealers and sellers of blankets and hats are women who will braid your hair where you sit. To be clear, my intent was not a head of gray box braids or corn rows. I was after just braiding my bangs out of my face. Like some of my co-workers can pull off by themselves for a day of work. Though I’m raised by a skilled hairdresser, I do not possess any such ability.
I chose a kindly looking woman who was even older than me. She said $5 would meet the needs. I eagerly took my wallet out of my bikini (bwah ha) to pay her. She started her task. She sprayed and twisted over and over. Language barrier didn’t prevent me from knowing that she was frustrated with my tresses. She tried to make some small talk as she worked. Her English was better than my Spanish which really isn’t a compliment to either of us.
As I sat, I continued to watch the beach happenings. In addition to buying cocaine and silver, a person could pay for a horseback ride on the beach. Because of this activity, my children, whose Spanish is much better than mine taught me the Spanish word for horse. Had that not happened earlier that day, I may have continued through my life with the misguided belief that my hair is fine.
But noooooo.
Woman with skill and patience continued her work. She pointed to my hair and said my newly acquired Spanish word “cabello.” She smiled. I don’t know that she meant to burn me or give those close to me a reason to sass me for years to come but she did. She’s not wrong. My hair is coarse. It was a moment of hair enlightening that’s provided plenty of material for such gags as “why the long face?” and questions about if I use a curry comb.
The horse hair has been cut short again. I’m trying to grow out the dark part. If history is any indicator, it’ll change again. It’s hair. That’s what it’s built for. I’ve heard a couple “you’re brave” which may be another way of saying “eeeessh.” But just to be clear; I have not rescued a kitten from a burning building. I cut my hair. It’s hair. Trust me, try what you like with your and know that it’ll come back.
PS if you’re really my friend, you’ll stop me from anymore attempts at a perm. A perm of gray horse hair? No matter what I’d try; imma be still looking like a Golden Girl. Thanks in advance for your cooperation.
Bifocals and Barbells 