Thanks to Splenetic for the photo.
Yup, I grow my own hair. That may not sound like much of a feat, but what about all these celebrities running around with someone else’s hair glued or stapled to their heads?
I can understand needing a different look for a red carpet event or tacking on a wiglet for Diddy’s birthday party, but underneath all that, are they physically unable to grow hair? Sure, throw on some extensions while you wait for your damaged hair to grow out. Then . . . come on, take ’em off. It doesn’t take that long to grow some hair.
And why, if they’re so rich, can’t they at least afford real-looking fake hair? I look at some of these nice young girls and I simply can’t believe they paid actual money for those stank weaves and ratty extensions. My hair isn’t the greatest, but at least it was free.
So, yeah. My hair grows all on its own, through follicles in my scalp, no chemicals or additives or Chia magic. Lindsay, Britney, Nicole! It’s not that hard! You don’t have to do anything! Just let it grow!
And maintenance is a breeze. I get it cut twice a year and have even brushed it once or twice. There’s a permanent snarl in the back, under the top layer of hair, where you can’t see it—well, I can’t see it, who cares about you?—and tho I have managed to de-snarl it, it just reappears every time I wash my hair (which, despite my other lazy hair habits, is frequently). So now I just treat this snarl like a secret mini dreadlock.
I’ve had my share of bad haircuts and worse perms. When I was 14 I dyed my hair black for a Halloween party. I told my parents I was going as Cher; actually I was going as a hooker. Don’t all hookers have black hair? I can’t say that it was worth it: my hair looked like someone poured black shoe polish over it.
But nowadays my hair is its own natural, nice color, and when I make the effort, it can look pretty good. The last time I got it cut, there was this big, wet, freshly shorn curl in my lap that just looked too adorable to get swept up and thrown out. I stuffed it in my pocket for reasons I do not know, only to find it hours later (now more a puff than a curl) and suffer a mild stroke. (Have you ever stuck your hand in your pocket and come up with a bunch of hair? It’s unnerving, to say the least.)
I ended up giving the hair puff to Dave, who has a rather unnatural love for my hair. He tries to run his hands thru it, but encounters that dreadlock-snarl, and I have to help him extract his hands from my Medusa tentacles. He seemed pretty happy to have the puff of hair . . . maybe too happy. I decided I didn’t want to know what he was going to do with it.
Flashback to several years ago. One of our cats unearths a little stuffed cowgirl (I think she’s from Toy Story) that neither of us can remember seeing before. We start hiding it for the other to find. Dave hides it in my underwear drawer, I hide it in his cereal box, and so on, until, like normal people, we move on to other pastimes and Cowgirl is forgotten.
Flashforward to my trip to Las Vegas. I’m unpacking my suitcase and there, among my socks and three back-up swimsuits is Cowgirl. Surprise! I’d almost forgotten about her. But . . . there’s something different. She’s got . . . is that? Brrrr.
Rubber-banded to her stuffed head is my puff of hair.
It’s thoughtful and funny and scary all at the same time. And I have to say, she doesn’t look much worse than these famous girls with someone else’s hair attached to their heads. Maybe rubber-bands will be the Next Big Thing.
I’m not hiding Cowgirl anymore. I’ve got her where I can keep an eye on her and make sure there aren’t any needles poking into her. She’s a little worse for wear after being a cat toy and the object of “hide the weird doll” game and traveling to and from Las Vegas.
But she’s got great hair.
* Today’s lyrics are courtesy of Galt MacDermot and Gerome Ragni.