Bad hair days

I'm sure all of us have gone through a bad hair day or two.

The Windsor Star reports on a study that some women refrain from social situations because of them.

Me? huh I've got some nappy-assed hair going on. My ex used to call me Medusa - after a nights sleep it stood up and out in coiled splendor like the snakes on the Greek myth's head.

What I cared too much to control when I was a teen became contempt as I got older. On my worst bad day - after I couldn't undo some extensions I had put in three weeks before - I just cut the damned things off.

Yep. I did that Frida Khalo thing. I had those extensions on the floor before you could say "it took you how long to put those things in?"

Then I got out the shaver and went to town. I did such a bad job the hairdresser asked if I had been through chemo-therapy. Dad had thought I had changed my sexual orientation and mum was pleased that I had finally gotten my hair out of my eyes.

But not all was lost. I loved not having hair to condition, comb and worry about. I thought I could come to terms with my greys but we didn't see things mutually so I did the platinum blonde route and got my nose pierced.

Now it's Medusa-lite as hair gels, molds and paste adorn my dressing table shelves like seagulls to french fries - my hair knows who's boss - intitially.

After a few hours it takes over when I least expect it or know what I actually look like - that is until I'm able to look into a mirror. It's then I wonder how it ended up in the contorted shape that was never intended. Some water and a finger comb later it is somewhat presentable but even a minor effort on my part only angers my hair and it contorts, frizzes and is just plain naughtier in a matter of minutes.

But that is all hair going down drain because there is always the electric shaver.