Every day for me is a bad hair day. I was born with that kind of hair. I just can’t help it. Only yesterday my mother who is 86 said to me.
“Irene I have to talk to you seriously.” I thought it was going to be about end of life stuff as she looked me straight in the eyes. ” You have to do something about your hair. You can’t go to New Zealand to present a paper looking like a hobo. No-one will take you seriously.”
People paid to have their hair like this in the eighties – mine came naturally. “I happen to like my hair at the moment” I told my Mum. No-longer does it look like a frizzy mop. The hair dresser has taught me about PRODUCT. It is still big but with untidy looking curls. Nonetheless she asked me to demonstrate how I combed it. She might be able to give me some tips. Compared to how it has looked throughout my life I think it is great.
Sometimes I would fluff it out on purpose. Once I added a beard made from my dog’s hair.
Mostly I did not.
What I have discovered with my hair is that my personality changes to suit my hairstyle. When it is as above I am quite mad. I have the courage to do anything, say anything and be what I want to be. I think this is because people have no expectations of me. I look like a loon and people are more often pleasantly surprised than disappointed.
I do get my hair cut short on occasions. My husband hates it. He likes the mad look. My mother loves it short. It is how she kept it when I was a child. My personality goes inwards. I become conservative, quiet, dull.
Forever a child in my mother’s presence I agreed that I would probably go to the hairdresser prior to my forthcoming trip but I can guarantee it won’t be cut short – I need that infusion of courage my bad hair gives me.
None of this has anything to do with my bite size memoir bad hair day.
I had to get to work. We argued most of the morning. My car sat in pieces, parts in the lounge room, others loose under the bonnet. The mechanic, my husband, sat drunk in the kitchen. There was no choice but to take the panel van I had never driven. Nervously, I eased out from the kerb and did a U-turn to take the easy way onto the highway. Someone always let you out. When the traffic lights turned green I moved forward. Just as I crossed the intersection the steering wheel came off the column. I had no control. I decreased the pressure on the accelerator and applied the slightest of pressure to the brake. Even then I veered toward the gutter, hitting it and coming to a stop. Shaken, I couldn’t even rest my head on the steering wheel. Definitely a bad hair day.
Written in response to Lisa’s Bite Size Memoir prompt.
Oh and even long hair as untameable as mine can put me into a mood of sophisticated play acting.