Frayed at the Edges

Many women’s magazines make me roll my eyes. What kind of person spends time writing things like “Your Make-Up Mood” or “What Your Hair Says About You”—more to the point, who would I become if I read such nonsense?

So it is with a great deal of ambivalence that I made the following realization this morning—my hair has gone round the bend. As anyone who grew up with me could tell you, it has had many a frizzy, disheveled season. I only really embraced the use of a blow dryer in my early twenties and skillful use of any sort of hair product thereafter. I was neither a tomboy nor marvelously attractive without cosmetic treatment; I was merely far more comfortable with pen and paper than with mousse or eye pencil.

However, my new, somewhat amorphous post-partum figure has provoked a new interest in self-maintenance. When once I was surrounded by friends who scoffed at my womanly ineptitudes (mostly male friends who were far more comfortable in pumps than I), now I’m in the mom club. This is one where your compatriots are on constant watch for your utter deterioration. It’s for your own good. I used to consider someone a real friend if they told me a bit of food was trapped between my teeth. Friendship now is a measure of how completely those around me let me unravel.

Here’s the look to be avoided: stringy wet hair and the “I’ve given up on life pants” that are only meant for home-use during recovery from serious surgery. Wear them out to the grocery and girlish treats like pedicures are proffered freely, as are offers to burn those pants.

Most of my clothing likely indicates that I’m closing in on end-of-life decisions. But, accepting that I’m no femme fatal, the sort of glamazon who wakes to the world bronzed, blonde and in a perfect size 2 mini, I snapped my fingers at myself in the mirror one morning, “Girl, you have got to do something about that,” I said, gesturing at my general countenance.

I started blow-drying my hair daily—after, miracle, showering daily. Once or twice, I attempted eye make-up for little more than a regular day at the office.

My reward has been a morning spent as a half-raccoon (because I got distracted by a crying baby after one eye’s mascara application) and to my chagrin, banglets.

That’s right, banglets—tiny little devil’s horn tendrils that curl mischievously from my scalp. My mini-medusa’s origin? Well, I’ve cooked the rest of their length right off my head.

The truth is, I hadn’t realized how terribly time consuming maintaining one’s personal appearance can be (having never before attempted it). My routine adds 8 minutes to my morning, ten if I run the dryer on anything other than High/Nuclear Fusion Hot. Much like what I might do with daily application of a soldering torch to my head, I’ve melted the ends off the front of my hair so that my reward has been wavy two-inch long wisps jutting from along my hairline. They can be tucked and hidden away with hairspray, but that takes time. Instead, I sport a hairdo that leaves me as appealing as a kimono dragon.

“What Does Your Hair Say About You?” those hackneyed magazine articles ask. Well, my hair can’t answer—it’s recovering from its latest trauma in the burn unit. But assessing myself honestly, here’s my best guess: “I’m trying, alright? Sure, it’s not pretty. Certainly, I’m nothing to copycat in a special summer style issue, but I’m not quite as pathetic as I once was. Really, I’m just dead follicles, anyway, right? I guess there’s an existential question there about a dead thing being tortured, because, lordy, this woman has done some damage as of late. It’s the way of things though, deterioration. I read this book once—oh, no! Look at the time!”

It’s a bit of a mess, my hair—somewhat rough around the edges. But then again, I guess so am I. Perhaps those goofy articles are more than just fluff. I may have tripped upon a deep philosophical truth about life and myself here. Perhaps, like my hair, I’m burnt out.

That, and I’ve realized that I need a way better conditioner.