I am inept about “doing” hair. Not only don’t I know how, I seem to have a mental block against learning.
I can’t remember the last time I used a curling iron, though I suspect I burned myself and repressed the memory. We have a blow dryer, somewhere around here, but only for the unlikely event that we ever have a house guest who wants one.
I have thick hair, coarse, with some curl. When I wore it long, I always tied it back. Left loose, it was so thick, it formed a pyramid around my head. (Roseanne Roseannadanna was based on truth.)
Sometimes, though, I have had Gene Wilder hair, from Young Frankenstein. Hair gets drier and frizzier as you age, you see, especially if you color it.
Think people who dye their gray hair are vain? I foolishly thought so too, until I got gray hair and suddenly realized it’s not about vanity, it’s about mortality.
Plus, judging from my roots, I’d have a gray stripe, like Susan Sontag or the villain from Josie & the Pussy Cats. And. That. Is. Not. Happening.
So, I was ecstatic when my stylist leaned in conspiratorially one day and said, “You know, you don’t have to wash your hair every day. And you shouldn’t brush it – ever.”
Huzzah! She was giving me permission to do even less!
I do use shampoos and conditioners from her salon, though, which apparently are worth more than their weight in gold. What am I putting in my hair? Fairy dust? Powdered unicorn horn?
My hair always looked better wet than dry, less poofy. One conditioner, combed through wet hair with your fingers, keeps it looking less poofy even when dry.
So, I am still doing nothing, yet I can pass for a normal person.