Hair, I've learned, will never come easily for me.
At age two, springy, course curls erupted all over my little head. My mother, unsure what to do with it all, trimmed it into a dirty blonde halo which floated around my chubby, smiling face. This was endearing until I was six, after which explaining why I, a Caucasian girl in the midwest, had an afro was somewhat difficult. The years which followed were flashes of frizz, mullets and one steady stream of uncontrollable mane.
Three years ago, I visited the salon to dye my locks. I asked for brunette...purple is what I got. After the salon's numerous stripping treatments and cover-up jobs, I'd had it. Not only did I have aubergine tresses, but they were falling out of my head with the faintest touch. An awful cut just months after this incident left me looking like an electrocuted poodle. And that was it. In 2007, I gave up on trading my hard-earned dollar for stylized disappointment. I couldn't remember the last time I'd left the salon feeling like I'd gotten my money's worth, or even my time's worth. I fell into an easy and safe routine: I'd trim my ends when they began to look mangy, and mix my own dye when I needed a touch up. In between it was business as usual: wash and wear...and flat iron, iron, iron.
Oh, the damage a girl can do to her own tresses. I knew it was bad. They were lackluster and my split ends had turned to split strands. But, for years I'd convinced myself that it was better to do damage by my own hand than pay for another to do it for me. Today, I finally gave in. The damage was irreparable, and I needed help. So, I went back to the one salon that's ever done me right. At least an inch and a half had to come off to shock my locks back to life, my stylist told me. This was particularly heart-wrenching as I've spent years dreaming of long, wavy, effortless locks. And the years have never brought them to me. But, the snipping had to be done, so I crossed my fingers and placed my trust in the very talented scissors of Kiersten. Within minutes she had whipped up a batch of brunette perfection, and I was cooking. And the finished product, although not long, luscious locks, was surprisingly livable. More than livable, rather likeable. And not at all purple. The exact shade of brunette I'd hoped for, cute new bangs and a sweet, shorter 'do.
I've crossed my heart that I'll take better care of my locks-using a heat-protectant when I straighten and following through with regular check ups with Hair Dr. Kiersten. It's a whole new me. And maybe--just maybe, if I'm good, year 25 will bring me the tresses I so desire.
They say healthy hair grows 6 inches a year, right? :)
Behold the new 'do. And, a very sweet boy sent me flowers on Friday...it was his birthday, and he wanted to thank me for making the end of his 33rd year, and birthday, incredible. Should I keep him? :)