manifesto

As my poor roommate well knows, I'm slightly obsessed with hair. My hair, your hair, his hair, her hair. Say you met someone who's name you can't remember and you tell me what their hair is like: I will tell you who they are.

This obsession stems from my inability to understand the hair that grows from my own head. It grants me the favor of being there, while not so politely asking me to let it be to do as it pleases. To grow fast or slow, to curl or be straight or just go in all directions at once at it's own discretion. And quite frankly, I got sick of it.

So I devised a plan to slowly bring it under control while it thinks that it has the final say so.

After senior pictures were taken, I marched into a salon, sat down and said, "cut it off." "

"How short?"

"Really short. So I can spike the back."

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"Ok."

So it came off. Mom looked like she wanted to cry, Dad said I could sue for damages, my own sisters didn't recognize me, and I was forced to learn how to use mascara so I wouldn't be mistaken for my long lost twin brother who actually doesn't exist. Somehow I learned how to take care of really short hair. Gel works really well, so does blow drying it with your head upside down, providing you don't get dizzy and fall over in the process. Cute clips, bobby pins as it gets longer, etc. I cut it off mid-January and it looked great until around June.

My sister, wise as always, informed me that having extremely short hair would not be appropriate for NSA, which I would be entering in August, so I grit my teeth and let it continue growing. Since then I have kept it longer, but it always ends up getting bobbed sooner or later, no matter how hard I try to keep my hands off it.

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You see, the thing with longer hair is that you have to do something with it. You can't just roll out of bed, run your fingers through it and be out the door in 15 minutes. You have to blow dry it, decide how to style it, style it, hope it stays up, fix it halfway through the day and hope to high heavens that it behaves. Bad hair days aren't a joke. They are a reality.

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To combat bad hair days you have blow dryers (complete with a diffuser for curly hair), curling irons of various widths, flat irons, hot rollers, and aisles and aisles of hair products in brightly colored containers promising instant hair miracles. What these bottles and canisters and hair appliances don't tell you is that you need skill to apply them. Which I really don't have. I have all the tools, but I also have two left hands.

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Learning how to use those tools has been a perilous endeavor. I distinctly remember getting an inch by one inch burn on my forehead the first time I attempted to use a curling iron. Using a blow dryer resulted in something akin to a drunken bird's nest perched upon my head. Learning how to use a flat iron was a little easier, but still brought it's own angst and had the side effect of my going board straight every. single. day.

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So I began spying on other peoples hair. The sincerest form of flattery is copying, right? I have flattered nearly every girl I know, and even a couple guys. (I had short hair at one time, remember?) I've started asking questions, I've begged people to teach me what they know, I've spent hours parked with my boarding mom while she taught me the finer points of wielding a curling iron without burning yourself.

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My latest endeavor was to make head bands out of sweet fabric scraps I've been saving. I think I may have gained mastery over my bangs, although I'm pondering the possibility of hairspray that has some sort of invisible cement as it's main ingredient. The hairdryer is slowly bending to my will, and the flat iron has realized that it can do more than stick straight.

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Maybe I'm on to something here.