When hair is in the shower drain, it’s revolting. When hair is in your feta-cheese-and-marinated-pumpkin panini, it’s downright vomitous. When hair is on your bikini-line, it’s been a while between boyfriends. But when hair is YOUR OWN HEAD, it’s NON-STOP FOLLICULAR DRAMA. If you’re a girl, that is.
Guys seem not to care, unless they’re bald, in which case any reference to hair is usually HILARIOUS to everyone else, and secretly sad for them. Particularly when it’s their partner asking them to look again at the pillow case and see all the hairs that fell out over night.
Welcome, coiffure comrades to the Cyclone Cindy post inspired by Britney Spears, Willow Smith, The Little Mermaid, Sesame Street, and a $50,000 defamation law suit, where we learn to love our hair.
Not too many people can openly and proudly announce: I love my hair. Except for Shane Warne. I have complained about my hair for most of my life. And in my adult years, I have attempted to hide the REAL Cindy Hair. The hair that -yes. Looks as though I just walked in from the centre of a cyclone.
But I’m tired of tying my hair back in a fashion that makes me look as though I’m about to leap onto a gently moonlit stage with Mikhail Baryshnikov. Or start casually, yet oh so sophisticatingly side-step with guitar in hand to a Robert Palmer song. The slick-back-bun days are over. As is the Alice in Wonderland (Oh, I’m just wearing this headband to cover the grey roots) look… which I totally rock when my hair is really straight, by the way. Which isn’t very often.
Yep, I am over the days of hiding behind my unruly locks. I will embrace the frizz by nurturing each and every wiry strand with the humidity and heat in which I dwell. I will shun the blow dryer and the GHD. (Which incidentally stands for Girls Hates Dreadlocks.)
Instead I’ll start experimenting with a little product and a lot of self love. I will embrace more of the brave hearted lion, and less of Dorothy’s perfect pigtails. And I’ve based this decision on decades of personal research. Good hair days. Bad hair days. Hair trends and hair philosophies. Celebrity hair. Cartoon hair. Puppet Hair. And hair that costs a fortune.
She has inspired me on so many levels. Mainly for one reason though. SHE DOESN’T CARE. She’s one of the world’s richest entertainers, and yet you often see her with her hair floppily tied back in an un-kept ponytail. She shuns people like Ken Paves and secretly laughs behind Jennifer Aniston’s perfectly manicured locks. “What a waste,” chuckles Britney to herself. “That money could be spent on new Ugg boots.” She even went so far as to get rid of it. ALL of it. A woman who can shave her head for no other reason than to tell the world… “You wanna piece of me? Here – have some blonde hair and black roots!” is a champion in my opinion.
Daughter of Will and Jada Pinkett, this somewhat talented and spoilt confident little nine year old felt so strongly about wearing her hair how she wants, she recorded a song all about it. Sony have yet to release it, but I saw a sneak peak and she’s whippin’ that hair all over the place. It’s wild and wonderful. The song is called Whip It, and she really can. Probably not what any mother of a nine year old girl wants to hear, but Rihanna: Eat your heart out.
The first ranga Disney Princes sure has gorgeous hair right? I would trade colours to have that kind of hair. And that’s my point. Loving your hair is not just about the style. The follicular fate with which one is born goes much deeper than style alone. Colour is what people notice and I happen to believe that gingers get a rough deal. There are plenty of beautiful red heads. Ok, so my daughter is one of them, but I sincerely love it. And I love being told by at least 3 strangers a day what beautiful hair she has. Because it is. And she does. And thank goodness for Ariel.
No words required here. Instead I will show you a clip I watched. Remarkable how a puppet can explain better than anyone the simple concept of loving what you have and using it.
I’ve been hesitant to ever mention this as the published word, but I am going to be very careful here. Some years ago prior to my wedding, I decided it was best to grow out most of the layers in my hair in order to have hair options for my wedding day. I wasn’t sure what dress I would end up wearing and if I had chosen a turtle neck dress, the hair would have HAD to be up. I didn’t but… a girl can never be too prepared for such things.
Following my wedding and honey moon I moved to Darwin. A hot humid town with a tropical climate. Weary of the frizz factor I asked the hairdresser for some layering around the face, but nothing too short as my curly hair gets worse in the wet. I’ll spare the graphic details, but I walked out with a mullet. Like the posh spice hair style that was popular a few years back, but with a long piece hanging down the back beneath it all.
Tragic is an understatement. My new husband who rarely comments let alone notices my hair, pulled a face that said it all. So after 2 emails and about 5 phone calls to the salon later, and not even an attempt to make contact with me to apologise or rectify the appalling haircut… I actually did nothing.
I went to Sydney where my old hairdresser said, “WHO did this to you?” and proceeded to fix it by chopping it all off at my shoulders. Then I fell pregnant and happy hormones and the wonders of prenatal vitamins took hold. My hair grew fast and I forgot all about it.
THEN – one day after the baby was born, and I was feeling particularly depressed with whole concept of expressing milk and my newfound Dairy Farmers membership and feeling very much like a Jersey Cow, I remembered the feeling of loss. Hair loss. Un-natural hair loss. (At least baldness happens gradually). So I did what any self respecting 35 year old woman would do, and started a group on facebook.
Word got around and before you know it, my NEW hairdresser was telling ME about this girl who got sued for publishing that she had been BUTCHERED. Haha. That was me. And then the scissors dropped.
If only I’d seen the Sesame Street clip sooner. I had been very attached to my Versace hair. (I prefer the term Versace to Nanny Fine). Instead I took what small amount of vengeance I could muster in such a situation and screwed up worse than my hairdresser did.
Now I look back at those shorter hair days and think it looks ok. Even pretty good here. (Shame about those Christmas bauble earrings). In fact most days I think my hair looks pretty good, provided it’s been washed less than 2 weeks ago. So I’m going to say it now even though I don’t fully believe it yet. But I really, really love my hair!