Bad Hair, Good Times
What is it with women and their heads?
Ah, a smile you can’t make up.
Last week’s video, Achieve Happy Hair followed my ceaseless journey to look more French and finally resolved that the solution to fundamental frizz includes goggles, my most primitive memory in form of security blanket and Bumble and Bumble’s Semisumo. Groundbreaking, really. The former half of the video reminded me all too keenly of the temperament of my natural hair, unscathed by the perils of “temporarily permanent” hair straightening processes and conversely an iron (I don’t know how to use a blow dryer, so, if you want to teach me, I will take a lesson.)
The photograph above was taken during my semester abroad in Paris which is ironic considering the width of my hair. I may not actively know how to achieve French hair without help from a third party (see the aforementioned goggles, blanket, hair product) but I do know how to assess that which is certainly not French.
And yet, I feel nostalgic. I remember so vividly getting this hairbrush caught in my hair. Though I had brought my most functional hair iron with me to France, I did not bring a converter, which is different from an adapter, which I should have guessed based on their names, which quite literally speak to what they do, which I did not guess, which left my hair looking like this for a very long time. Instead of suggest aid tips, my roommates–with unapologetically silky hair that required few products beyond straight lotion and holding spray–took photos and laughed and likened the texture of my hair to house cleaning products.
On the particular night chronicled here, I was slated to meet a man for a drink who had expressed previous interest in myself and what looked like an explosion from the stuffed animal aisle of a toy store but was actually just my jacket. I did not cancel nor did I apologize for the state of my hair. He took me to a kosher Thai restaurant even though he was not Jewish, presumably to avoid anyone he might know. I never saw him again but that noodle bowl was ace.
Fervent complaining made my mother cry from 3,000 miles away (estimate). But because I had no other choice, I made it work. At least I had hair, right? Five years later, memories from the time abroad are far more colorful because of the tales my head insisted on telling.
In light of procuring good memories, I urge all of you to upload photos into the comment section below (hooray for a multifunctional commenting forum!) depicting some of your worst hair photos and consequent great stories. You can vote up for your favorite pictures and stories (hooray once more for a multifunctional commenting forum!) because the 19th amendment said so but certainly don’t have to.
You also really should try Semisumo to make sure the bad hair memories remain just that: memories. Unless you’re still building some, in which case, remember: adapter, not converter. Sigh, what is it with us women and our hair?
Part II of a Man Repeller x Bumble and bumble collaborative series.