As the Curling Iron Turns

AS THE CURLING IRON TURNS

Women and their hair -- a never-ending dilemma. The world could be immersed in political scandals, wars, and other newsworthy events, but nothing stimulates conversation better than hair.

Women never seem to be content with the hair they were born with. Just as grass is always greener on the other side of the fence, hair is always more alluring on someone else's head. If her hair is straight, she wants it curly. If it's brown, she wants it blonde. Hair too short? Hair extensions. Hair too long? She wears a wig.

Women's hair styling tools and accessories should be labeled as lethal weapons or torture devices, as they resemble chopsticks, clamps, and multi-toothed amphibians. Others have foreign names like "scrunchy" and "banana clip." All these adornments are imperative for preventing bad hair days.

Women crimp and primp, perm and squirm, dry and dye. They curl, tease, highlight, streak, and straighten, then apply gel, mousse, and hair spray. They have brushes that are round, wire, or heated, and even ones that emit steam. If all else fails, then out comes the Velcro, sponge, or plastic rollers. Their curling irons with various size barrels do everything but spit nickels. Only a woman knows what a kiss curl, pin curl, or spiral perm is, and what the terms feathering and layering mean.

I have fallen prey to all the pitfalls that come with having a full head of hair. If long hair is considered a woman's glory, then mine was singing hallelujah. I never had a perm until my twenties, and then ended up looking like a backup singer for the Jackson Five. Not only was my ethnicity in question, my hair also took a beating from the chemicals, leaving my hairline red and sore. Lest you think that hair-raising experience stopped me from getting future perms, let me assure you I thought nothing of suffering for vanity. I literally let my hair down and had it cut so short, that a little florescent orange hair gel would have fit me right in with the punk era.

In later years, a few grey hairs dared make an appearance, so I thought nothing of spending the equivalent of a week's grocery money to have the offending hairs masked. After a while, I rationalized that I could save oodles of money doing it myself. How difficult could it be? All you do is put the dye on your head and wait while it works its magic. Sounded like splitting hairs to me.

I chose a product with a reputable name, and carefully followed the instructions. The cheap plastic gloves promptly developed a hole, and the leaking dye stained my skin. After a very long time, my mission was accomplished. The hair results were passable but the bathroom was another story. Dye had somehow splattered all over the walls, peeling the paint off. It made me wonder what the stuff did to my hair. Repainting the entire wall made this whole experience a little more expensive than I had anticipated.

The next time, I touched up my roots, and noticed unusual dark stains on my bedroom carpet. Puzzled, I followed the trail of brown blotches to the tiled floor of the bathroom. I had unknowingly dripped the dye, colorless at first, on the floor and then stepped into it, tracking it wherever I walked. After that fiasco, I figured I was clearly coloristically challenged, and decided to leave the coloring to a professional.

The other day I found myself wondering if blondes really do have more fun. I guess only my hairdresser knows for sure, and I intend to leave it that way.

Maria Harden
(c) 2002

Story ID:	216
Written by:	Maria Harden (bio, contact, other stories)
Story type:	Musings, Essays and Such
Location:	Winnipeg Manitoba Canada
Year:	2002
Person:	Maria