Hair is supposed to be a woman’s crowning glory. Mine’s more like a cross to bear.
I hate going to the beauty parlor. (Excuse me, hair salon.) But I also get sick of single-handedly beating my hair into submission. Sometimes I need a little help.
Now, I’ve never had an awful experience with a beautician. (Excuse me, stylist.) I’ve never walked out with chartreuse hair or a buzz cut, although once in Vegas I got a trim that looked like the work of drunken beavers.
The stylists aren’t the issue. It’s my hair--and all my phobias--that’s the problem. I’d rather get my teeth cleaned than my hair done.
First there’s the vinyl cape that’s swooped around you like the wings of a giant bat the moment you sit down (those that snap at the nape are the worst.) Then there’s that first glance in the mirror, where 500-watt bulbs cruelly reveal every pore, pimple and split strand of hair.
The stylist peers doubtfully at my frazzled ends, rubs them between her fingers and utters some version of “And you had WHAT in mind?”
By this point I’m usually slumped sideways and the only words my lips will form are: “Do you need to know my real color? ‘Cause I can’t remember.”
About this time my phone rings. It’s Widdle Baby. “Hey,” he says. “Are you there yet?”
“Yep. Gettin’ my hair did,” I say.
“Cut it!” he says. (That’s what he always says.)
“No,” I say, which is what I always say. “But I may go platinum blonde.”?“You know I hate that,” he says, and we politely hang up on each other.
Part of the problem is my wildly inflated expectations: I enter with a frizzy ponytail, looking like the wrath of God, and expect to emerge looking like, oh, Taylor Swift. Ha-ha!
The deal is, my hair is totally random. It’s curly, frizzy, fragile, tangled and full of cowlicks. There is no natural part or regular growth pattern. The true color is what my brother T-Bob once described as “buckskin,” which, for the record, is not a skin-flattering shade.
A few weeks back, my hair was looking strangely… well, dusty. Kind of dull and powdery. I called for an appointment with a new stylist.
Two days later I’m sitting in her chair. She smiles as she inspects my hair. That’s progress! They never smile at my hair. Then she puts her hands on my shoulders and meets my eyes in the mirror.
“You hair’s not dusty,” she says. “It’s gray. About 20 percent.” Friends, the room started to spin.
I like to think I’m pretty self-aware. I know I’m too impatient, with a crooked nose and annoying laugh. But even after facing the truth in the mirror for weeks, I refused to acknowledge my gray hair. This is called denial, and apparently I’m good at it.
The stylist expertly covered the gray, but I was too shell-shocked to have it cut or styled. I left deflated, with the same old frizzy ponytail.
The truth is, it takes a shallow, vain person—like moi—to fret and fume about hair. Just how petty I realized yesterday, when I walked by a young woman with a bandana on her head and dark circles under her eyes. Her mouth was pursed in pain.
She had maybe three wisps of hair, and I’m betting that was the least of her worries.
Without saying a word, she put my petty hair problems in perspective. I only wish she knew it.

Julie R. Smith, who remains amazingly self-absorbed, can be reached at widdleswife@aol.com.