Rapunzel, Rapunzel .....

There is something quite unruly about my hair. 

 I have quite vivid memories of my childhood where my mother would just look at my hair and say “darling, you have such special hair…” and I always wondered what was so special about my very thick, red - curly, wurley hair that was ever a distraction to me while I was growing up. Always on my list to Santa each year would be: 1. Ladies Bike, 2. Ronson Hairdryer with attaching inflatable drying hood and 3. Long straight red hair.

Growing up my hair was the centre of my universe: long or short my friends and I would make an afternoon of trying to straighten my hair and of course it was an exercise in futility: like paper always wins over rock, curls always win over straight hair.

Damn!

My best friend had beautiful straight locks that were the envy of all the girls in our class. It would flow way beneath her shoulders and down her back – in fact we spent many hours in school cutting out her split ends … much to chagrin of all the teachers. She always carried around a special pair of scissors for just this occasion and her ever warning words, “just cut out the split ends and not the good bits” – still ring clear in my mind some thirty years later. By the time we finished year 10, I have to say that I had become a very proficient split-end cutter but what was the chance that I could get employment with that skill?

The cumulative amount of money and time that I would spend at the hairdresser nearly amounts to the National Debt: washed, dried, cut very short with a different colour rat tail, or grown long and braided with pretty coloured ribbons; blonde highlights, dark red highlights – I have tried it all. No wonder my hairdresser was always happy to see me – a full morning spent in the salon followed by the “must” purchase of special anti frizz, protein adding shampoos, conditioners, special colour conditioners, anti frizzing gels, lotions and crèmes – I have tried them all! Mind you, all it took was one step outside the hairdresser’s and gone was my “do” and back came the curls!

Speaking about the trip to the hairdresser: there’s something very scary about letting a new hairdresser loose on your hair with a pair of scissors especially with my hair. More often than not we would discuss what I would like and then you would wait for her or his interpretation of what I wanted. Yikes!  Cup of coffee in hand, I would sit quietly but nervously in my chair looking into the mirror hoping like hell that they wouldn’t notice me staring at every movement of the scissors while sending them special thought messages not to stuff it up.

Ok, I have to admit that I haven’t been to the hairdresser for 10 years – so yes you are right surmising to say that I have taken to cutting (trimming) my own hair and putting a colour into it every now and then.

Even after hours in front of the mirror and with the most expensive anti-frizz cream, Evan still tells me that more days than not I look like the wild woman from Borneo with red curls flying all over the place doing what they feel they must, rather than what I want them to do but that’s ok I have finally realised that my red trusses, albeit messy and wild, are just a part of who I am.

And Evan loves his wild woman from Borneo!