Wild-Haired Women Wake Up With the Blues

In a world of silky-haired models with bone straight hair, I stand out from the crowd. Or I should say, my hair stands out—literally. An erratic halo of dark frizzy curls frames my face and tops my shoulders. While other women’s hair lies down and behaves and announces to the world that they are smooth and firmly in control of their lives, my hair likes to stand out and shout that I’m a bit of a mess--inside and out.

My hair tells the world that I lack discipline, and I’m lazy. It confesses that I refuse to get up early and gather my resources to deal with the natural disaster I’ll see in the mirror. Which force of nature will it be--a volcanic explosion of curls hurled straight up into the air or a tidal wave of frizz cresting in fury over my forehead? I could be a National Geographic cover girl. I look like a species that has yet to be discovered, except perhaps by Dr. Seuss.

I sometimes think the reason I wake up depleted is that all night as I sleep, my hair is siphoning energy out of my body. When the alarm goes off, my body is as limp and wrinkled as the sheets, but my curls are a fabulous example of potential AND kinetic energy, tightly wound springs that dodge and bob my feeble attempts to order them.

Other women use chemical weapons (mousse, gel, hairspray) and power tools (hair dryers, straightening irons, hot rollers) to create order and control in the morning. I’m a hapless leader who is ill-equipped for battle. I have a small bottle of John Frieda “Dream Curls” that I spritz hopelessly over my head in the morning. It’s like trying to end a mass uprising with a purse-size bottle of pepper spray.

What can I say? I’m weak. I have no pride. I just surrender to my inner wild child and let my unruly hair go its own way. I put down the brush and reach for the lip gloss. Screw my hair. I’m going to decorate my pie hole instead.

September 12, 2005