Everyone has something about themselves that they hate. With some people, it's a physical thing. For others, their issues might run a little deeper.
I hate my hair. A lot. More than seal clubbers and terrorists and Canadians. Trying to describe just why my hair is so awful is a challenge in itself. It is neither curly nor wavy nor straight. Somewhere in between the texture of straw and wire, my hair is thick and disorderly and never untangled.
Making the matter worse, I have dried, fried and dyed my hair beyond repair. I've had every color under the rainbow: red, black, blonde (I use that term loosely since most people don't think the color of marigold flowers actually constitutes ‘blonde'), purple. I've gone from ""that girl"" with the unsettlingly long hair that makes your hands reach for a pair of scissors to ""that girl"" pretending to be a boy with a bowl cut.
I've allowed friends with no training whatsoever to chop to their hearts desire, and almost every day my freshman year my dad would iron my hair for me. No, not with a flat iron, but rather an iron intended for clothing. Obviously a good choice for both the condition of my hair and my overall aesthetic appeal.
The bowl cut actually lasted a lot longer than it should have. About eight years longer to beprecise. At some point in my early toddler years, my mother made the decision to not even attempt to whip my unruly hair into shape but rather, to hack it all off.
While I'm sure that I am not the only person in the world who was subjected to in-home haircuts at the hands of their mothers, I doubt many had their mother walk around their head with a pair of sheers in a perfect circle. No layers, no shape, nothing. And she thought it looked adorable! Devil woman.
The only changes to my trendsetting hairstyle over the course of my childhood were the addition of a tail on the nape of my neck. Approximately four inches in length, half an inch wide, my tail was my pride and joy. Looking back now, I realize it was one of the darkest moments in my life but I distinctly remember sobbing hysterically the day my mom suddenly came to her senses and made me cut it off. There is a possibility that I kept it. In a baggie. Under my pillow.
The worst part is, every member of my immediate family, save myself, has absolutely gorgeous hair. My sister has wonderfully straight and healthy hair that does anything she wants it to and out of pure spite, she keeps it around an inch long. Bitch.
And my Dad, who is a full-fledged senior citizen, has a great salt and pepper coif that shows no signs of thinning or falling out. Not that I want grey and white hair, it's just the principle that I got stuck with a half-curly, half-knotted nest of awfulness.
My mom kept her hair short while I was growing up, so it might have been terrible too at one point. But looking at pictures from when she was my age her hair looked pretty straight and manageable, so I really can't even blame her.
For 21 years, my hair has been a constant source of frustration and embarrassment. It has made me question whether I'm adopted, since I can't link its awfulness back to any of my family members. And most recently, it almost cost me my job.
Currently, my daily hair regimen consumes at least half an hour of my day, and that's if I let it go wild and curly. Straightening my mane requires at least an hour, normally more. I start work at 8 a.m. or have class Monday through Friday and every morning, I am faced with the decision: Look like a slob with a rat's nest for hair or show up on time. Being a shallow person, I normally choose the latter. For some reason, this doesn't sit well with either of my employers and I've been given several stern talking-to's about the importance of punctuality.
If I had the self-confidence and didn't have to worry about braving harsh Wisconsin weather and critical sorority girls judging me every day, I would shave my head in a heartbeat. But I don't.
After all the damage I've done and all the revenge my hair has sought, I figure my last viable option is to start buying wigs. Or get a weave. This way, I can go blonde without accidentally turning my hair the color of Cheetos... a mistake I've made twice in the past. I haven't looked into all of my options but faux hair or real hair that used to belong to someone else (or a horse) has got to be better than mine. Right?
Have a traumatizing hair moment that you'd like to share? Want to go wig shopping with Jillian? Email her at jlevy2@wisc.edu.
