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I hate my hair! It’s no secret! Hubby has heard me declare that I was going to shave it all off more times that the number of hairs on his head (and his beard, and his chest – he’s a very hairy guy)! And no one would blame me if I did! I have been wrestling it into place for many years, a testament to the precarious grip I have on sanity!

Every school photo, I had the same look: dishevelled and neglected waif!

My mother tried. She really did. Some years she carefully rolled my hair into rags the night before Picture Day to make pretty curls. Other years she yanked it back into pigtails. But by the time I sat in front of the photographer, her hard work was undone. Curls with a life of their own; pigtails all askew. Stray wisps mocking her from the glossy pages.

It hasn’t improved with age.

When I started this blog, I wrote in my Raison D’Etre that I was going to get a funky new haircut, maybe a new colour too. But in the midst of trying to have a midlife crisis, I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. Or rather, I couldn’t quite decide what to do. If I hadn’t figured it out in the previous decades, what were my chances now that I was writing about it?

And then last Summer, I bit the bullet. I booked the appointment. I searched the internet for a rockin’ look. That morning, I showered my long locks for the last time and headed out the door:

Long Hair

Note the reluctant grimace on my face and the fear in my eyes…

I knew it would take awhile to adjust to the new “do”. I had, afterall, removed a significant hank of hair during that appointment – 12 inches in fact. I was away from home at the time, so even Hubby had to wait a few days for the great unveiling.

The actual unveiling to Hubby did not go as planned! He never said he didn’t like it…but “what he did say built upon my rapidly diminishing ability to keep a stiff upper lip, and his words haunted me until bedtime…that hour when all reason slips away quietly, just like the setting sun. And faced with my reflection in the glare of the fluorescent bathroom lights, I could see the truth”.

This is how I responded:

“First, came the gentle weeping, the slow trickle of tears from the corners of my eyes. But like a summer storm, the heavens opened with a torrential outpouring of unreasonable sorrow. I breathlessly sobbed a cacophony of unintelligible words behind my hands. I knew Hubby was probably panicking, grasping for something to say while knowing fully that nothing was going to stem this flow. His wife had turned into a monstrous behemoth of volatile emotions, and he may or may not be partly responsible. (I’m pretty sure he was amused as well, so don’t feel too sorry for him). Like a banshee, I cried , “I just wanted to be pretty…this is where you’re supposed to say ‘you are pretty’…even if (repeating Hubby’s humiliating statement)”, which succeeded in making us both laugh, even as I was hiccupping into my damp pillow. I fell asleep hoping my pillow didn’t grow mould in the humid room as I slept.”

(To see the shameful after picture, click here. I’d just insert it here, but I’m hoping the 3 of you will be too lazy bored busy to actually go there!)

All this is leading up to yesterday… I actually rolled out of bed earlier than expected, so I decided to play with Little Guy’s blue hair gel…In theory, it looked great. In reality, it looked…crunchy! I could have toussled my hair with Elmer’s glue and it would have looked just as attractive. And having used up all my extra time, I had to head to work like that. And the chiropractor like that. And then home to bury my head under the pillows.

Thankfully it washed out and my hair isn’t crunchy anymore.

It’s also not blue. Or behaving in any sensible 40-year old way.

So much for my midlife crisis. Shaving it off is starting to sound good again!

Happy Weekend!