Happy Monday, dear reader. I hope you had a wonderful and relaxing weekend. Here in Western Pennsylvania, our temperatures are to rise to almost sixty degrees and remain in the upper fifties for the next few days. That is a welcome reprieve from the frigid temperatures we have been experiencing. I took some time this weekend to look back over my blog posts. I realized it had been almost a year since I made the decision to let my short hair grow. I also came to realize that once again, my body betrays me. Alas, it is one more unseemly sign of aging. Sigh.
I would chop off my hair every ten years or so in the past. This practice began in my early twenties. As soon as I was a legal adult, I began messing with my hair in earnest. I blame my hair issues on my dad. When I was a kid, I had hair down to my waist, just straight, long dark hair. I had no bangs, no style. I often wore it in a ponytail or pulled it back in barrets. With my very fair skin, my very dark hair, and my very high forehead, I looked very much like Wednesday Addams. Add to all that I was a very somber child, and Wednesday and I could have been twinsies. I was permitted to get bangs in sixth grade. After much begging, pleading, and cajoling, finally, the summer before my ninth-grade year, my mom took me to the salon to get my hair cut and get a spiral perm that was so popular in the eighties.
She made this appointment unbeknownst to my dad. When my dad came home from work and saw what I had done to my hair, the proverbial sh** hit the fan. My dad ranted and raved to my mother. He refused to allow me within his sightline. He then left the house in bluster and did not return until the wee morning hours intoxicated and crying over the ruination of my beautiful hair. He then did not speak to me for two weeks, and when he did talk to me, it always began with, “How could you do that to your beautiful hair?” Seriously, it’s hair. It grows back. It’s a dad thing, I guess.
I believe it was a passive-aggressive act of rebellion, but I was always doing something to my hair in my youth. I wore it at various lengths, had it highlighted in blonde, red, or copper. It always grew back in a very timely manner until now. Now, I can add slow hair growth to the list of complaints about my treacherous aging body. Slow-growing hair is way more noticeable than a weak bladder, arthritis, or even crows feet. Sigh. I feel as if I have been stuck at this hair length forever. It’s not even a good length in which to be stuck. It is what my stylist calls “that awkward phase.” Seriously Mandi, let’s call it what it is; what you mean is that ugly mushroom head stage. The top of my hair is longer than the rest of my head, and we keep waiting for my hair to catch up with itself. The thing is, my hair is not cooperating.
In the past, my hair would have been back to at least a chin-length bob with a year of growth time. Not now, oh no. As if to add insult to injury, I will be moving into my fiftieth year with bad hair. My goals aren’t lofty. I don’t desire a Brazilian Butt Lift. I don’t crave a boob job to make the girls bigger, rounder, or rest where they were in my twenties. I don’t want liposuction and abdominal etching to give me artificial abdominal muscles. Hell, I don’t even want Botox to paralyze my WTF lines. All I want is a ponytail. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, it is too much because my hair is stubbornly hanging out in the mushroom head stage.
I will chalk this up to one more lesson I have learned the hard way. That lesson is if you are over forty and desire nothing more than a ponytail, don’t cut your hair past your shoulders. There is nothing that seems to remedy this tragic turn of events. I am spending eighty dollars a month on vitamins to make my hair grow. I must admit, my hair is indeed thicker. However, much to my horror and annoyance, so is the peach fuzz on my face. It could be my over-critical eye or the realization of one of my greatest fears, but my face seems fuzzier. It’s not outright whiskers, thank God, but I find myself micro-blading my face more often. Sigh.
The Bibbed Wonder does nothing to help the situation. He points out repeatedly that my hair has not budged in length. He also points out Jordan’s hair has grown like two feet in the past year. My terse response is, “She’s twelve and has the luxury of youth and growth hormones.” Along with my ovaries, my hair follicles are withering as well. Sigh. My hair is to the point where I almost want to chop it off again. My stylist keeps telling me it will grow, but I am losing faith in my once trustworthy beautifier. Actually, I would like to make Mandi my scapegoat, but the reality is my hair stubbornly refuses to grow out of the ugly mushroom head phase. Perhaps this is punishment for vanity. Maybe, God has a really cruel sense of humor and says, “You think peeing when you sneeze is bad? Hold my beer.” Although, I don’t really believe any of those things. I mean, really, like the divine being has nothing better to do than fu** with middle age woman? Although, there was poor old Job. Right now, I consider lousy hair to be right up there with the plague and boils. Sigh.
As always, dear reader, stay safe, be smart, if you are over forty, don’t cut your hair off, and keep washing those hands.