So I'm entering into this new relationship with my hair. In the past, I treated my hair like my husband - if I didn't like the way it (he) was, I tried to change it (him). This resulted in a lifetime of changes and experiments, including cutting, coloring, perming, straightening, highlighting, styling, and the occasional threat to get rid of it altogether. (Not Hubster, just the hair. Although he could use a little styling, what with his wardrobe staples being torn t-shirts and baggy shorts mottled with wood stain.) For the longest time, anyone I met who hadn't seen me for the previous 3 months would say, "Gosh, you've really changed your hair." I was a walking art project.
But I finally reached a point where I'm accepting my hair for what it is. Or maybe I'm just too tired to care.
Anyway. The other day, after my hair had dried into its usual mass of long waves, I had an epiphany - I look like Dyan Cannon! How cool is that? Well, it would be cooler if anyone younger than 50 had even heard of Dyan Cannon. But here she is, in a photo from Oct. 2007.
I should probably mention that DC is 70 years old in this photo. I guess to be honest, I should say that only my hair looks like Dyan Cannon. The rest of me looks like Dyan Cannon's mother.
In any case, I've been reveling in my new confident self-awareness and radiating with love for my locks. Until yesterday.
Daughter #2 (age 14) said, "Gee, Mom, your hair looks .... "
I jumped in to finish her statement. "Pretty? Wavy? Full of volume? Stylish? Attractive? Great?"
Daughter paused, then replied, "... cave-woman-ish."