I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with my hair. Growing up, it was a hot mess. My mom has a lot of great qualities – hair styling is not one of them. I had a broom of bangs that did no favors to the shape of my face and I’m hard-pressed to find photographic evidence to prove that I brushed my hair on a daily basis during my childhood.
Karen. Second Grade.
Pictured the morning after an ill-fated attempt to sleep with hair in curlers.
Currently my hair is thick, coarse, and long. Not wear-long-jean-skirt-go-to-church-everyday-and-preach-against-dancing-long but it’s fairly long. Probably too long (someone once told me that long hair on women over thirty is a sign of promiscuity) because my go-to style on these sticky days of summer is to rock the Elsa side braid. I’ve flirted with idea of cutting it short but the last thing my arms want to do in the morning is wrestle a hair dryer and negotiate with my hair so I don’t look like a mushroom by 10am.
I had my hair cut above my shoulders once in high school. I looked like Rosanne Rosannadanna. I wish I were kidding. Again, I was a hot mess. But at least because of my unpopularity among my male peers, I was able to focus on important things like schoolwork, Tom Cruise, and collecting Got Milk ads. So until I find the elusive easy breezy above-the-shoulder hair cut that doesn’t require around-the-cl0ck styling and summon the courage (and upper arm strength) to actually cut my hair, I’ll rock this wall of hair. At least I know, as evident by the throwback picture, that I am not meant for a perm. And that is okay.