I pride myself in being a woman who can do many things — most things, really — and I'm usually fairly successful in anything I try to accomplish. I don't know how much of that is talent or can be attributed to pure stubbornness and tenacity. I don't give up on anything easily, and I'm generally able to figure things out.
This week I gave up. Threw in the towel and said a great big screw it.
I've had short hair most of my life. I asked my mom once why, and she said from the time I grew hair, I always used to run my mucky food hands through it when I ate, and she got tired of having to hose me down after each meal, so she just cut it off. Well played, Mom. Well played.
I love having short hair because it's easy and stays out of my face. I cannot stand when hair gets in my face — it drives me nuts. I can't think. I can't concentrate. And I'm not talking about a whack of hair in my face — I mean just a few straggly strands that can casually brush up against my skin for the briefest of seconds.
I NOTICE EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THEM EVERY SINGLE TIME.
I can't help it. I'm the same when it comes to the seam on socks, and while I love the idea of wearing rings on my fingers, I can stand them for about forty-five minutes before they start to irritate me and I have to take them off. Same with bracelets or a watch. Earrings I'm fine with because they've literally poked a hole through my skin and nothing is brushing up against it.
Here's a confession. It pains me to have to say this out loud because I'm a proud woman, but here it is. I was not born with the beauty gene — you know, the one that gives you the innate ability to know how to braid hair or wear cute clips or even to apply makeup properly. I do not have these abilities. I wing it every single time. I do not have a skin routine or a hair routine or a toes routine. I have tried to acquire these skills over the years, but it is a futile attempt.
I had to order some books for work through Amazon, so while I was ordering, I thought maybe I'd browse for some 'get this bloody hair out of my face once and for all' clips. I had an idea of what I was looking for because I'd seen other women wearing them, but when I went to the Amazon page I was overwhelmed and needed to take an Advil and lie down for a bit.
A bun holder? That looks a little bit like a doughnut to me — and even I know not to put doughnuts in my hair. Well, now I know. Butterfly clips? Alligator clips? Tortoise claws? Straight clips, curvy clips, clips that tell your fortune if you tilt your head a certain way?
IT'S ALL TOO MUCH FOR ME!
I reached for the pair of scissors on the coffee table. I'd just cut it all off right now and then I wouldn't even need any clips. I did it before during lockdown and I'll do it again, so help me God. I took a deep breath and gently laid the scissors back on the table. Today would not be that day. I was going to pick out some clips, and I was going to put them in my hair, and that was that.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I returned to the Amazon page and focused my attention on clips for thick hair. Thick hair, when it's long and you have no clue how to style it, is a nightmare, at least for me. And as I've gotten older, for some inexplicable reason, it's exploded into a muck of waves and half-assed curls that have no rhyme or reason. And if I don't dry it — which let's be honest is most days — I leave the house looking like 'Humid Monica' from the television show Friends. People stare and try not to point, but they do. I see them.
I clicked 'Add to Cart' for a four-pack of 'Thick Hair Magic Claws.' On the wings of Amazon angels, and my guy Kevin the UPS driver, my Thick Hair Magic Claws were at my front door when I returned home from work the next day.
I was a little apprehensive about opening the box. You know how sometimes when you order stuff, you're so excited to rip it open and check it out? Yeah, that was not me this time. This time it was like getting a birthday present from that relative you love because they're your relative, but you're scared shitless about what's inside because you know you're going to have to wear it or display it every time you see them FOR THE REST OF ETERNITY.
There must have been a mix-up because Amazon sent me four weapons that could certainly maim a mid-sized animal, perhaps even a lynx or a red fox if I could catch them.
'THESE ARE CLAWS!'
Imagine me thinking that the Thick Hair Magic Claws I ordered would actually be claws. And now I was supposed to figure out how to put them in my hair without inadvertently poking a hole through my ear or puncturing my skull. Those springs had some serious force. I'm a pretty strong woman, but the website should have noted that using these hair claws was clearly a two-person job.
'THERE ARE NO INSTRUCTIONS! THERE IS NOT EVEN A YOUTUBE VIDEO!'
I battled that claw for better near two hours, trying to figure out not only how to get it in place but keep it in place. It was no use. I set it on the table and went to bed, exhausted, my spirit drained.
Two days later, with renewed determination and revised tactics, I focused on my arch nemesis — The Gold One. It had this weird shimmer to it. And it just kept flickering in the corner of my eye, like it was mocking me. I threw my toque over top of it.
'Back off! You don't know me! You don't know my struggles! I WASN'T BORN WITH THE BEAUTY GENE OKAY!'
In fifteen sweet minutes — well, I had a little trouble still — The Gold One was safely holding down my clump of strategically gathered hair. My face was free! I could breathe again!
I tiptoed to the washroom to take a peek in the mirror at my new beauty look.
I looked like Legolas the Elf from Lord of the Rings. Seriously. All that trouble and all that anxiety and I end up looking like a fantasy creature that lives in a treehouse and walks weightless across the snow. Wait — I kind of like the weightless part. I'll go outside now, try it out, and let you know...
(Goes outside and immediately falls through the fresh snow on the front lawn.)
Dammit, that didn't work, and I probably should have put on shoes. I wore The Gold One for approximately 58 minutes before she decided she'd rather rappel down the length of my hair and end up wedged in the back of the couch. I tried again the next night and got it up to 67 minutes before I lost her down the back of the toilet. Such is life, I guess.
I mean, I tried, right? I gave it my best shot! But when you just don't have the beauty gene, you just don't have the beauty gene, and there's not a darn thing I can do about it. I'm at peace with it. I have nice teeth, so I've got that going for me — and thankfully oral care is a different gene altogether. I am an expert flosser and brusher, and The Gold One can never take that away from me. NEVER.
Next week: Why I sometimes have to put tissues behind my ears...