I've been a slacker again when it comes to taking care of my hair...I must have been a bald man in a previous life because I just cannot figure out what to do with this substance that insists on growing out of my scalp. And it's been this way my entire life.
I remember as a little girl, seeing all the other little girls with their french braids. Not only did they have french braids, they had braided it themselves. A few of my friends volunteered to try to teach me; I might as well have been a monkey groping around the back of my head for lice. Later, I had just as much success with blow dryers, curling irons, flat irons, velcro rollers, and bobby pins. And just recently, my hair dresser's assistant even commented that I was washing my hair incorrectly and creating a build-up of residue. Apparently, the only thing I can do right with my hair is brush it. And I'm too lazy to do that.
Maybe I have a gene missing. The one that allows women to contort themseves in all manner of ways with all manner of tools to successfully assemble a hairstyle. This wouldn't be the only presumed gender-wide gene I've got missing, either. I also have never successfully completed a cartwheel. I know. Even today if I confess that to other women, they're all like "Seriously?" and then, if we're outside, they'll do one just to rub it in. "That? You can't do that? Even when you were a kid?"
No. And you know what else? I never got past level one of Super Mario Brothers, either. Why, it's a miracle I survived to adulthood.
Anyway, I feel bad about being a hair-do slacker and the un-made hair appointment I keep reminding myself to make and not making. I even feel guilty when I run into my hair dresser, knowing that I rolled out of bed that morning and walked out the door with my hair in the same ponytail that I slept in and my too-long bangs shoved back with a pair of sunglasses as a pathetic homage to a headband. At least I have not tried to cut my bangs myself; I think if I did she would file for divorce.