Once upon a time, I used a hairdryer.... every day! I also used a straightening iron and owned pots of products designed to tame chaotic, frizzy hair. I had long, blonde, straight locks that I could wear ten different ways. I developed killer triceps from wielding a hairbrush for half an hour a day. I looked polished. I looked kept. I most certainly didn't look like the wild African zoo animal that I occasionally see roaming the house with tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles.
I no longer blow-dry my hair. I have embraced "the curl", which in turn means that I have embraced "my decline". I have one look these days - which just so happens to be the exact same messy up-do I was sporting back in 1991, the only difference now being that I spend precisely 30 seconds doing it, rather than the regulation 30 minutes I used to spend back when I was thirteen... at least I have developed authenticity in my old age!
I went to the shops the other day with a wild coif that stood straight up from my head (thanks to the Monkey's monkey grip). I didn't realise until I got home and was checking to see if I'd managed to scrub all the pumpkin vomit off my back... my humiliation knows no bounds! No wonder I was the recipient of so many pitying looks from the 'oh so young' and 'oh so judgmental' Slavic gang of high cheek-boned check-out chicks at the local IGA!
One day I hope to have nice hair again. I believe its possible. Perhaps when the Monkey learns not to swing from Mama's ponytail like a.... well, like a little monkey really! Once again I will have use for polishing milks and serums and a hairdryer so powerful it wakes the entire neighbourhood. But until that day, I'll be the washed up, dishwater blonde with the Year 9 hairstyle!
Ha! And you thought I was exaggerating!