Saturday, July 13, 2013


Hair is a funny thing.  Not “funny ha-ha” but rather, funny odd.  Hair (and the issues it presents) provides both a common bond and a divisive wedge between people.  If we don’t have hair, then we want it.  If we have it, then we have too much.  If our hair is curly, then we want it to be straight.  If it’s short, then we want it to be long.  Nearly everyone hates their hair at some point, and we’re happy to commiserate about our hair problems.  Those lucky people who love their hair every day of every week of every year are nearly nonexistent.  We covet other’s hair styles and colors, thinking we would be so much more attractive with that particular cut or color, then grouse (my uptown word of the week!) when it doesn’t look the same on us.  Really, ya think???  Especially when she’s a natural blond and you’re a redhead before you attempt her color???  Sure.  If you believe that, I have a few national monuments with ocean views that I can sell you.

 When we get it cut, the stylist gets it wrong whether we pay more than the cost of a tank of gas at an upscale salon or ten bucks at the local barber.  Never mind our unrealistic expectations that we will look like we lost fifty pounds and twenty years if we get out hair cut like Jennifer Aniston or George Clooney.  (Again, I admit to this illogical thought process—I just know that I’m one haircut away from a size 8.  Don’t judge me; I know you’ve done it too!)  And another thing…it really doesn’t matter how much you pay or what the resulting haircut looks like.  Hair is like grass; it grows.  For some of us, it may be more like growing weeds, but regardless, you’re just going to get it cut again next month.  Grass.
Millions (maybe billions) of dollars are spent each year on hair care products, processes, and restoration.  I’m guilty; I admit it, probably one of the worst.  My bathroom closet contains a multitude of different hair sprays, gels, mousses as well as a wide variety of implements to curl, straighten, and further whip my unruly mane into a socially acceptable hairdo that won’t become the subject of (imagine the thick southern accent) “Did you see the hair on her head???  OMG!!!  Does that woman not own a mirror???  I wouldn’t leave home with that rat’s nest on my head, bless her heart.”  (As most of you know, in the South you can anything about anyone as long as you follow the negative statement with “bless her heart.”)  But I digress.

Hair is definitely a funny thing.  Funny in the platypus sort of way, like a joke God plays as you get older just to see if you’re paying attention to the passing of time.  I’m talking about the hair that starts showing up in unexpected places.  Like the half-inch-long hair you discover protruding from your chin after you spend the day interacting with more people than you did in the last six months combined.  Absolutely mortifying.  And, to top it off, none of your friends bothered to mention it to you.  So, you stock up on tweezers and make sure you never leave home without one.  Complete paranoia takes over as you frequently examine your chin, neck, nose and any other possible site of a creeping invasion of man-hairs upon your person, just knowing that there is a man-hair lurking close to the surface, waiting to spring forward at the most inopportune time.  Arrrrrgggggghhhhh! 

Balding men get really sensitive about their thinning hair.  They comb it one way, then another in an attempt to achieve the greatest amount of coverage.  Guys…it really doesn’t matter!!!  It’s still the same amount of hair!!!  Guys stare at that hair restoration commercial on TV as if they are on the verge of learning the secrets of the universe.  And women are supposed to be the vain ones.  Not even close when it comes to a man and his hair.  They attempt to keep a tight hold on their hair, all hair, including those rogue hairs that exit their scalps and journey to more fertile ground found in the ears, nose, and eyebrows.  These evil hairs grow to unbelievable lengths and wave at passersby when a gentle wind blows.  God help this man, especially if he lives with a ‘groomer.’   “Huh,” you say.  Yes…it’s true…I’m a groomer.  “Really,” you say.  Well, not the dog kind.  The man kind.  Since my first experience with the evil man-hair on my chin, I have been on a mission to eradicate wayward rogue hairs.  (Now would be a good time to feel pity for the man in my house who is frequently subjected—often against his will—to  plucking, trimming, and other hair removal techniques in an effort to combat this vile menace.)  These depraved hairs will not be shaved!  They refuse to submit to my will so they must suffer the consequences.  They will be yanked out by the root and destroyed in the name of all things smooth and hairless!!!  Amen!!!
OK…maybe a little over-the-top, but I see myself as a knight in shining armor carrying tweezers and scissors in a never-ending battle against bushy ears and eyebrows, not to mention those despicable little nose hairs masquerading as a mustache.  It’s just so wrong!  For all you warriors out there who groom your man until he can stand no more, I salute you!  Now go pluck any wayward hairs you find, and if your man has trouble rolling out of bed in the morning, rip out one of those big, long, thick eyebrow hairs—you know, one of those that enters the room before he does.  He WILL get up and you have effectively killed two birds with one stone.  Now that's what I call time management!
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