The 'Hair' Apparent
I love the 80s as much as the next person. I may only have been a kid back then, but I rocked my legwarmers and shoulderpads with the best of them. Though probably not together. That decade produced the best music, and some of the most amazing movies ever produced: Flashdance, Footloose, Fame, Dirty Dancing, Pretty in Pink, The Breakfast Club, Stand By Me, The Goonies, Back to the Future… I could keep going for hours. (Don’t get me started on dreadful remakes and second-class sequels.)
But there’s one aspect of the 80s which I’d happily forget. Now I’m no fashion guru, but I’m quietly confident that 80s hair is not going to be making a comeback any time soon. At least not intentionally. Sadly the weather here in the UK has other ideas…
Now, I love my hair. It’s thick, curly and auburn (thanks to the lovely people at Nice’n’Easy). But when I say thick, I mean thick. It’s really just ginger straw.
My Grandmama (yes, that’s what she liked to be called) used to call me ‘the wild woman of Borneo’ because of my hair. It naturally looks like I’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards (another phrase I heard often as a child). My Nan (the other one) constantly nags me to use a curling iron to tame it, but I’ve grown to appreciate my mane.
That is, until humidity hits. Fortunately, living in the UK, this is not a common occurrence, but the weather has been exceptional recently. My iPhone (oracle source of all knowledge and facts) registered the humidity as 82% one day last week. As a Brit, this is not what I signed up for.
Consequently, for the past two weeks I have been forced into becoming an agoraphobic. I made the mistake of walking the dog with my hair down one day, and didn’t understand the chuckles from passing strangers until I got back home. It had reached table-tennis-Monica-in-Barbados proportions.
I have nothing against afros, but I think it’s fair to say that God never intended for me to have one of my own. At least, not if he also expects me to find love at some point. I’m currently taking a break from dating, but if I hadn’t been, the hiatus may well have been forced upon me.
If you think I’m exaggerating, here’s genetic proof of my problem. My brother grew his hair long while at uni. It wasn’t his best move. Instead of the flowing locks he longed for, he ended up with something resembling a clown wig. Yes, he knows I’m posting this. No, I am not willing to post a picture of my longer, wilder version…
Why not tie it up? Surely this would be an easy solution? If only. My hair (once it reaches full-blown I-must-have-sat-on-a-power-pylon stage) snaps through pretty much any hairband in a bid to liberate itself from social conformity and acceptance. Plus, when my hair is tied back, my face basically becomes a beige, freckled bowling ball.
So hermitage it is until we’re blessed with a rainstorm. The students who live either side of me have moved out for the summer already, so at least I can do a rain-dance in the garden without the fear of being mistaken for an incarnation of a troll doll.
