Bad Hair Day, Bad Life: My Self-Worth Is Entirely Wrapped Up In My Hair
I know it’s superficial and vapid, but I just have to get it off my 32 B-sized chest: If I have a bad hair day, I have a bad life day.
That’s right, I’ve come to accept that my self-worth is entirely wrapped up in my hair. Yeah, yeah, whatever, I’m a vain piece of Millennial sh*t. SUE ME.
My hair has always been one of my deepest insecurities. I’m convinced that if I had a cascade of long, shining black hair like gorgeous roommate, Courtney, my entire life would have turned out differently. I mean, look at that hair.
I don’t have terrible hair. I have ordinary hair. Which, in my book, is far worse than terrible hair because nothing in the world is more tragic than mediocrity, right?
My hair is a boring brown. It doesn’t grow past my boobs, and I wish it did because I think hair that falls over boobs when naked is super-sexy on a woman. And I want to be a super-sexy woman. It could also really use a deep conditioning treatment. It’s not wildly curly or sleek and straight. It’s wavy. But not the trendy beach kind of wavy. It’s really just nothing to write home about it.
This is me on a typical bad hair/bad life day.
The first time I really, truly noticed how much hair affects my self-esteem was right after I had my very first blowout as a teen. My best friend Owen was in cosmetology school at the time, and was widely considered the best in his class. One day, he came over to my parents’ house after school and decided to practice a “high volume” blowout on my head.
“What do you think, Z?” Owen asked, as he revealed my completed blowout. He was nervous because this was before he was the famous cover-of-Vogue hair-stylist extraordinaire he is now.
I opened my eyes and yelped with glee. My depressing, limp waves had transformed into a shiny, bouncy, voluminous hair wonderland. I was no longer an angst-ridden, scrawny little girl; I was a powerful force of a woman who could NOT be stopped.
I instantly saw the world through a more beautiful lens. Suddenly, my failing math grade seemed arbitrary in the grand scheme of things, because I was a sophisticated, strong woman with ideas as big as her blowout. A bouncy-haired success with an inherent creativity so profound it would transcend my failing grades. I was destined for a BIG life outside of this depressing, small town.
I’m not the kind of chick who will just sit back and accept her flaws and get on with it. So you better believe, after that first fateful blowout, I invested in flat irons, curling irons, top tier blow dryers — the works.
Now I never leave the house without making sure my hair is styled like a Dallas beauty queen (if Dallas beauty queens had tattoos, lived in Manhattan, flat-ironed their hair and had long rocker bangs that fell into their eyelashes).
I suppose I COULD strive for real more-than-skin-deep self-worth, but hey, I was working on it until I accidentally ghosted my therapist. So until I muster up the courage to call her back, I’m just going to have to continue to put a dent in my meek salary on my HAIR.
Here is when sh*t gets troublesome for superficial betches like me. When your confidence is totally reliant on outside things (like hair, weight and compliments), your life becomes a tidal wave. One minute, you’re swelling so high that you almost reach the SUN, and the next minute you’re crashing into dirty, white foam, taking down a couple of innocent surfers in your dangerous wrath. It’s no way to live, kittens.
God forbid it rains and my sleek shiny hair becomes a frizzy, untamable mess. My mind becomes a frizzy, untamable mess.
One time, I cut my hair into a bob. It was my idea, and to the stylist’s credit, she did an amazing job.
However, I’m not a BOB girl. Bobs are for grown-ups, and I’m many things, but a grown-up is not one of them. I’m a wild child who likes to have long, lush hair that can be grabbed onto when having sex. YES, I TOOK IT THERE.
I felt ugly and ordinary and adult for about six months. Until I decided to drop about $1,700 on hair extensions, because, again, if I was going to do it, I was going to get the best. And voila! I stepped out of the chair and felt pretty again. This is the exact day I got my extensions (I’m the girl on the left).
Is all of this sad? Maybe a little.
But I don’t care. We all have cheap tricks that make us feel better. While I’m figuring out this whole deep-rooted confidence thing, I’m not going to beat myself up for having a codependent relationship with my hair. It’s not the worst vice.
And hey, at least it’s no longer my weight that defines my self-esteem! We all know how dangerous that path is. Hair is progress!
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