I have always had the hardest time with my hair. It’s unruly, curly, frizzy, and all over the place.
My solution has always been to wing it with a flat iron, lots of hair product, and a prayer. Then my hair disagrees, yet again, split ends ensue and the almighty hair trim is in order.
I have dumped eggs on my head in an attempt to invigorate it with more protein. I have slathered on coconut oil, olive oil, castor oil. All that stuff is great, and I’m sure if I had the patience to sit around in a hair cap several hours out of the week, I would really see some amazing results. The thing is, I don’t have time for all of that. Who does? I marvel at the super women among us who seem to have this hair stuff all figured out. I half suspect that they’re all wearing wigs these days, but that’s another story for another day!
This has been a life-long struggle. I’ve got so many stories!
One time, I told my current boyfriend I would be using eggs on my hair weekly for hair treatments.
Casually sitting in bed, fiddling with our phones before clocking out for the day, I said, “Hey babe, so I know my use of cooking ingredients in the bathroom is pretty different, but I’m going to be doing egg treatments on my hair weekly, so try to save a few eggs for me, ok?”
A moment passed, he laid his phone down, staring straight ahead and asked “Why are you doing…what are you saying…huh?” and things along those lines, with lots of very long pauses in between.
That’s how men typically seem to regard the “mystique” of female beauty rituals. Crickets. It must be nice to live in a world where all your partners are conditioned to like you just the way you are, bald heads and all. You would think that would make guys a little more open minded, but alas, some are much happier living with double standards over in fantasy land.
I went through a stage where I wore hair extensions for about a year. I absolutely loved them. I never had hair that covered my tata’s and went down to my waist before. It was a revelation – and my first pass at helper hair.
That was short lived, though.
One of my dear friends from high school had her extensions sewn-in. Not only did it cause irritation on the scalp, but when she had them removed, the hair that was attached went away with them too. NIGHTMARE OF ALL NIGHTMARES! The memory of that has made me very slow to do any more experimentation with these things, personally.
I’ve discovered that one way to have my cake and eat it too is by switching to wigs. I get better coverage and the silky hair texture I’ve always dreamed of without the creams, oils, flat irons, and split ends. I also love that I can take my wig off at the end of the night, so sleep is much more comfortable! They are also MUCH easier to apply and remove. No nightmare scenarios where your hair gets ripped out, which is a major relief to me!
I credit my Shilo by Noriko for the most epic turn-down of a dude in the history of my life.
This guy – let’s call him Bart – was type of guy who was cool in high school. (Boy, was I crazy about Bart in high school.) After we graduated and he found himself single, he immediately started messaging me. Like, nonstop. We go and hang out, at his house, and he can’t take his eyes off me.
“I love your hair”, he kept telling me. Oh boy. Here we go.
Here comes the dilemma: to tell or not to tell. That is one of the most epic questions when you’re dating! Is Bart part of the inner circle just because I’m crushing on him? Or do I have to play it cool and wait to see if he can handle all this epic faux hair T?
I decided to play it cool and see what Bart was like. After all, this was about 1 year after graduation. People can change a LOT after high school!
As it turns out, this guy was a pretty big snooze-fest. He also had really bad breath. Like, peel-paint-off-the-wall bad. Like, cartoon-characters-with-clothes-pins-on-their-nose bad. Like, how-can-a-living-creature-that-isn’t-a-komodo-dragon-have-breathe-like-this? bad.
We’re were cuddling and kissing when I realized I couldn’t stand it anymore. I even faked falling asleep for a second because I was literally gagging and needed to remove my head from the line of fire.
He didn’t fall for it. He kept trying to move in for more lip action. I dodged it with expert level skill and got up from the couch in one super slick, wish-it-had-been-videoed move.
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked in possibly the least helpful tone ever. It was kind of accusing, as opposed to concerned.
In my head we had an entire conversation about it, unbeknownst to him. It went something like: What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?! How the mighty have fallen! You were my #1 crush just a year ago – the ultimate in unobtainable hotties. What happned to you? You clearly put no thought into what you look like or what you’re doing with your life, but you think it’s totally ok to date me only because I have amazing hair? It’d better be amazing, for how much I paid for it. However, it’s not really a good reason on its own to date someone. (NOTE: Not digging on CysterWigs; their prices are actually very good; it’s just that this unit isn’t a bargain basement el cheap-o kind of style!)
I casually adjusted my wig with pinache, no longer caring what this guy thought of the matter.
“What’s wrong with your hair?” he shrieked in a childish, idiotic manner, horrified.
He just stared at me, stunned and befuddled, as I grabbed my jacket and headed towards the door. The look he gave was deeply incredulous, his mouth agape with great green wavy streams of stinky air coming out of it. (Ok, so I made that last part up.) This was the moment I realized my crush on Bart officially died. RIP. So much for high school crushes.
I almost asked him what was wrong with his hair. It was thinning a lot for a 19 -year old. I decided to stop my silent internal conversation with him, though, and leave like a lady instead.
“Well, look Bart, it’s been great. I really have to go now. My pet hamster is in town, and I have to take him on a walk and catch up.”
“What does that even mean?!” he asked, still not quite comprehending that I was no longer an 18-year old girl desperate for his approval. I was 19 now, thank you very much, and I had just realized that I had much better options waiting out there for me. I was worth better treatment than settling for a guy who only wanted me because he fell head over heels in love with my wig.
I grabbed my jacket and walked out the door. I never looked back. Bye-bye Bart.
Now, for the sake of my sanity, I tell people about my use of wigs early on in the dating process. It’s a test of their virtue – but is not a test of my realness. I feel like I’m being ultra-real by even bringing it up!
If a guy can handle my beauty routine, then he passes the test and is possibly worthy of epic smooches. If the guy is a Bart, then he can join the other Barts in their little fantasy world where women are cool with insane beauty and hygiene double standards.
Non-Barts aren’t that rare. Men are getting better about this, at least in my experience. It is definitely appreciated. In exchange for them being cool, I am willing to overlook any number of flaws, including beer bellies, flatulence, and, yes, even some bad breath. This has to be a two-way street though. I will never be cool with some dude expecting effortless perfection from me while forcing me to hold my breath while we make out.
I’m a grown lady now and ladies have standards.