WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 1: Among women, it is a universally accepted truth that your hair will look absolutely amazing any night that you happen to be staying at home.
If you have nothing to do, nowhere to go or plans that have been canceled, then trust me, not one strand of hair will be out of place. Your hair will not frizz, it will not curl if you have straightened it, nor will it go limp with the impossible Bermuda humidity or in my case, stick out even more. It will be perfect.
Several years ago, after what can only be described as a hideously painful and protracted divorce, I was asked out on a date. The fact that I hadn’t been out on a date since 1985 would certainly be cause enough for the increased levels of stomach acid. But it was August in Bermuda.
I had already worked myself into a lather regarding what I should wear, where we would meet, and of course how I would make my escape if he turned out to be the Texas Chainsaw Massacre type. He wasn’t, but that’s beside the point.
There were plenty of reasons not to accept the invitation. The build-up of course can be a real killer. It’s like when you finally get around to seeing the movie everyone’s been raving about. The movie turns out to be reasonably entertaining but a cinematic masterpiece? No.
There’s nothing worse than someone being told how charming, how delightful and did I mention, how attractive someone is and then they meet… me. Why put myself in that position?
But the real reason for my reluctance could be narrowed down to one important factor — my hair. That is, my hair in August.
As a child I had endured many years of NS. It’s not a disease. “Nun school” as my generation sometimes refers to convent schools, was a bastion of torture especially if you were, what Sister Mary Water Boarding always called me, a “…bold little girl with unruly hair.”
Turbans weren’t exactly a viable solution for little girls, so each day I prepared myself for the inevitable.
Between the relentless criticisms, occasional beatings, and a bad case of snarled hair from having it yanked so much, by the time I reached home from school, I looked like I had gone ten rounds with Sonny Liston.
I had a perm once. It was a mistake. I was young. Someone, perhaps the hairdresser, should have warned me that waist-long hair might be problematic if it were permed and then subjected to high humidity. I spent the entire summer wearing a pony-tail. It did not matter how much conditioner I used, the result was not and I repeat, not hippie-chic.
My mother was furious but then, it was the early seventies so she was always furious. We had what was called a “generation gap.” Which when I think of it, we might want to bring back since sometimes being close with your kids can get tiring.
Cup Match is another story. Spending two to four days under a tent in weather hotter than the hinges of Hades is the equivalent of an Olympic event for hair, or your own personal ‘Survivor’ episode. This is why digital photography is made for these events. Delete, delete, delete. It’s the fastest way to destroy the evidence of a coif gone real bad.
Hair, when you think about it, tells you a lot about a person, especially politicians.
No one really wanted Michelle Bachman to be the Republican candidate for President but so many women wanted her hair. They loved her colour, the cut, the way it framed her face.
President Obama keeps his hair really short and Mitt Romney has what I believe is the ‘Big Man on Campus’ cut.
You can tell that Hillary’s had it with her State Department gig. Just look at her hair!
In Bermuda, I have to say that both the Government and the Opposition look pretty good. Hair wise, any way.
Nowadays I wear my hair in what I call the signature middle age chop.
It’s not exactly a bob but rather than fighting nature, I just let my hair stick out. My hairdresser thinks that I have great hair. They say this to everyone of course but I let them tell me this just the same. It’s part of the service.
Then when they ask me if I need any “products” which is hairdresser speak for “would you like any of the high price shampoos that we sell,” I simply reply, “Yes, I would like a crowbar”.