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My mother's hair
Jan. 21st, 2011 01:55 pmIt's true, I've finally admitted it. I had hoped I had not, but I have inherited my mother's hair. Or rather: the genes that make her hair the way it is. Stubborn, thick and heavy. Mom was often complaining about how it never behaved the way she wanted it to. It makes me not want to cut it short, if I'm facing the problems she used to complain about. Not that I wanted to cut it shorter in the first place, I'm trying my best to grow it as long as it can be!
I visited the hairdresser this morning, armed with a printout of this glamourous blonde celebrity with curls like Shakira. Like a kid going to a candystore, armed with a basket and deep pockets in every garment.
Hairdresser Mandy confirmed what I already suspected: for that kind of glamourous, luscious curls you'd need to cut your hair in layers and get a perm. Well, I don't want layers, for the same reason I don't dye my hair anymore: I refuse to visit the hairdresser's more than twice a year. You can't expect layers to behave for long, because the split ends are up in every which place the hair ends. You can't expect your hair not to grow. And you can't expect to change haircolour, so that if you dye it red you won't get a hideous root showing after a week or three.
Instead, Mandy just cut off three cm of split ends and styled it into curls to see what it would do. Thick hair (Thick as logs! It makes it impossible for me to wear loose, because it poofs!) and then some "curl memory" spray, that would make it stick together so the curls would stay. And then she piled masses of hair onto a blowdryer with a funnel attachment.
I saw this image of a wicked hairdresser, piling hair into a funnel attachment of a biting, salivating green hairdryer. Hm. If only I could draw like Ursula.
After I left the hairdresser I picked up some supplies for patterns and went back home. I looked in the mirror. The glamourous mess Mandy had made of my hair had sagged, and any curls she had so carefully crafted with "curl memory" had now suffered a severe case of amnesia. It was as straight as before.
Yup, I've got my mother's hair alright. Too strong to be permed, to thick to be styled, and too heavy to be anything but what Nature's granted me: a mass of locks.
I visited the hairdresser this morning, armed with a printout of this glamourous blonde celebrity with curls like Shakira. Like a kid going to a candystore, armed with a basket and deep pockets in every garment.
Hairdresser Mandy confirmed what I already suspected: for that kind of glamourous, luscious curls you'd need to cut your hair in layers and get a perm. Well, I don't want layers, for the same reason I don't dye my hair anymore: I refuse to visit the hairdresser's more than twice a year. You can't expect layers to behave for long, because the split ends are up in every which place the hair ends. You can't expect your hair not to grow. And you can't expect to change haircolour, so that if you dye it red you won't get a hideous root showing after a week or three.
Instead, Mandy just cut off three cm of split ends and styled it into curls to see what it would do. Thick hair (Thick as logs! It makes it impossible for me to wear loose, because it poofs!) and then some "curl memory" spray, that would make it stick together so the curls would stay. And then she piled masses of hair onto a blowdryer with a funnel attachment.
I saw this image of a wicked hairdresser, piling hair into a funnel attachment of a biting, salivating green hairdryer. Hm. If only I could draw like Ursula.
After I left the hairdresser I picked up some supplies for patterns and went back home. I looked in the mirror. The glamourous mess Mandy had made of my hair had sagged, and any curls she had so carefully crafted with "curl memory" had now suffered a severe case of amnesia. It was as straight as before.
Yup, I've got my mother's hair alright. Too strong to be permed, to thick to be styled, and too heavy to be anything but what Nature's granted me: a mass of locks.
