TRESS STRESS

Five months ago I decided to grow my hair longer. It wasn’t done on a whim. I really thought about it.

Women frequently opt to change hairdos. The Kardashians do it hourly.  But for me who, since kindergarten, sported ear-length bowl-cuts with bangs (thanks, Mom), ducktails, shags, wedges and short bobs, this was a yuuuge decision. There are still tectonic rumblings here in the Wells woods and with good reason: my ears have disappeared for the first time in 80 years.

(Gentlemen readers, if you want to log off now, I understand. But Mr. Wonderful, aka Coif Counsellor, is on tap to hep if your wife decides to grow her locks. He can assure you that this is not an easy transition.)

The first month when growing your hair, people look at you quizzically, wondering if you’re due for a cut or missed an appointment. Because I occasionally walk into the laundry room carrying a bundle of clothes, then stop and think, Why did I come in here, that is a possibility. 

The second month you hear stronger reactions from friends and even more observations from your beloved husband. Just as we walked out the door for a dinner date with friends last week, Mr. Wonderful asked, “What’s happening to your hair?” (His timing sucked but I managed to remain mute and charitable, and definitely didn’t bring up his decision to go with the “side sweep-over.”) 

By the fourth month, when you wake up at 7 and go to brush your teeth, you might see this morning hair staring at you from the mirror.

Still, I persevere.

Long hair (mine’s almost chin level now!) requires new techniques and different tools. My hairdresser Stuart quizzed me relentlessly whether I “really, truly and SERIOUSLY want to go through with this???” He then suggested I needed a curling iron and graciously gave me a tutorial on how to use one.

Curling irons require special skills which, despite Stuart’s instructions, I’m beginning to realize I don’t have. Most people can bend their fingers 50 degrees. At best, my knuckle-swollen arthritic appendages bend 12 degrees which makes tightly grasping the slippery handle a Herculean task. I also have a decimated rotator cuff that defies raising my arm above my shoulders so I have to bend over to find the hair on the top of my head, somehow coil it onto the molten iron, then curl the tress before I fall over. 

The least advertised part of curling irons is that, to be effective, they must be piping hot. Mine could accelerate a lava flow to mach speed. But my gnarled fingers cause the gadget to flip-flop around, resulting in more singes and blisters on my hands and forehead than a California firefighter has. Sister-in-law Shirley, who visited recently and saw my attempts and resulting scars, just overnighted a jar of zinc oxide “for your burns, Val.” Bless you, Shirl. 

Why go through this? Is the whim worth it? Oh for sure. Some older women get their kicks wearing purple dresses and red hats. Others trade in their Peloton for an E-Bike. Even more stop buying Madison Reed Radiant Hair Color Kits and go “natural.”

I choose to grow my hair. Remember, it’s a long winter here in Maine.