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I am a modest person, just ask my personal assistants. In the year of our Lord 2005, I lost track of the number of compliments received regarding my natural attribute of big curly hair, yet I never got a big head. Now, we know big hair went out with Cher. It's been a long fashion season of Rachels; simulations, copies and virtual versions of her shag, with an aftermath of spikes, retro shags, up-do's and bed-head hair, and a lot of clamping hair in a big pile on the back of the head--with strands artistically pulled out. Nothing about spiral perms, or Farrahs, or 1/4 inch curling wands.
A girl in a store who loved my hair said she spends an hour a day straightening her natural waves. Why on earth? I asked. Uh, well, she says, I dunno, it's the thing, but like I just love watching the back of your like hair!
I think that Cher's personal assistants had a lot to do with the glory of her hair, and nothing at all in comparison to my God-given gift. Simply stated, I have fantastic hair! I must keep it safely so for always. (Cutesy symbol a la Kristen.) And yeah, it's the only thing about me I'd sensationalize on TV, radio or this blog.
On this 279th day of compliments, I felt fired up to actually think over those I gather closely to my breast when out of the house; these can be up to five in one day, most from perfect strangers who stop me on streets, escalators, in restrooms and post office lines, sometimes while their mate droops lank locks nearby.
I'm parked at the gas station and the nice boy is pumping the gas, then says Wow, I love your hair, is it natural? I just nod and smile, yeah it is. Ditto from the girl at the espresso stand, who almost falls out of her booth to peer into my car.
A co-worker habitually walks up behind me and asks to put his hands in my hair, he says he can't stand it anymore, he just has to.
The man at the last uptown salon I frequented called it "mondo," a so-80s word, but my hair is so 80s.
I go to pick up my daughter from a school function, and my presence is announced, "Your mom is here, she's the one with all of the hair, right?" My daughter comes boiling down the stairs, red in the face and huffs, "Mom your hair is famous" --like that's a terrible burden she can't buck off.
Today also is the 279th day of rain in the last year. The locals have begun to complain heavily about so much rain (like it's anything new--gosh) and sandbags were installed in strategic areas. Two years ago the rain was followed by a mammoth ice storm. Every particle of every bush and tree and blade of grass was encased in ice. I was awestruck at the wonderland of ice we woke up to, but when I touched just a small twig of a tree, a whole branch fell off! It reminded me of the time I went snow skiing and after several runs, came down the mountain with iced dredlocks. (Don't anyone touch my hair, haha.)
The rain-damp curls my hair, for free. Long ringlets of chestnut brown spring out in every direction, where there were only rambunctious waves before. My hair was never like this in the high desert country where I grew up. So there is this: the move to this wet valley wasn't all bad, I've had my days in the sun.
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