The return of the school year signals the beginning of the traditional Fall television lineup.
Beginning a new television season.
Another reason to add to my list of how come this is my favourite time of year.
And with the internet, one no longer has to sit in front of the television in the evening when the programs first air.
Meaning I watch very little television on television.
For example, right now I am watching, or rather listening, to the first episode of the tenth season of Spooks, the BBC drama detailing the lives and adventures of MI-5 officers.
Last evening, whilst lying in my bed, Em beside me wrapped in her jammies, sore throat, itchy ears, stuffy nose, home for the day in a valiant attempt to rid her body of the cold rampaging through her insides, I was treated to a particular girl's night fave.
America's Next Top Model: All Stars.
Initially, I was most reluctant to begin watching the program.
The feminist in me screaming about the subjugation of women both on screen and those who watch and learn that who they are isn't enough.
I still feel that way.
But watching it with Em, spending time with her, is far more important at this point.
Especially when she's been home sick and I've been at work from 8-6.
Last night we watch episodes one and two of cycle 17.
Cycle. . .whatever.
The second one was the make over episode.
Where beautiful women are make, seemingly, more beautiful under the watchful eye of Tyra Banks and her expensive team of hair "experts."
And inevitably, there is the "oh-my-gawd-they're-going-to-cut-my-hair-and-I'll-never-be-the-same-again-in-my-entire-life-and-no-will-ever-know-who-I-am-and-how-great-I-am-supposed-to-be-all-because-they-cut-my-hair" drama.
Please.
It isn't as if they're Sampson.
Watching this lead me to ponder my own hair adventures.
Or misadventures as the case may be.
Hair.
It's the one thing you can change about yourself one day, and then change again the next.
Losing weight takes time.
Plastic surgery is expensive and painful.
It's difficult to permanently change your height, although women are certainly doing their best to intentionally hobble themselves with stilettos.
If women were supposed to spend their days where devices of torture strapped to their feet, they would have been born with wooden feet so they wouldn't feel anything.
Think about it.
So hair is it.
And there isn't much I haven't done to mine.
Until I was about eight, I had long, long, long blond hair that went to the crack of my butt.
Adored by my father, hated by my mother because she was the one who had to take me downstairs to the basement, in the set tub, to wash it because it was far too long and thick for her to wash in the bathtub.
Even today, at 44, I can still remember the feeling that I was going to drown as my mother poured bucket after bucket of water in an attempt to rinse my hair of it's soapy cargo.
Johnson's No More Tears?
A massive lie.
Trust me.
And brushing this mane atop my head?
That's probably where I learned how to cultivate my far reaching voice.
In the 80s, I had it permed.
Much to my mother's dismay.
Only after it was permed did I understand how come she didn't want it done.
I looked like an electrocuted poodle.
My hair was somewhat longer at that point, thick and wavy.
Not prime perming material.
And THAT took forever to grow out.
I also had a rat tail.
Very 80s.
It was long, too.
After a break-up with my first, serious university boyfriend, just before Christmas, I marched into the local salon and asked the confused stylist to cut my hair as she usually did but then, I wanted her to shave the sides, creating a straight line to my rat tail.
What a mess that was to sort out.
I had to wait for the shaved sides to grow out long enough to be able to cut the rest of my hair to match.
And of course, who could be a child of the 80s and NOT have a mullet.
I was no exception.
And at one point I did know all of the words to Achy Breaky Heart.
If I confess a mullet, why not just get rid of all my secrets.
Getting older didn't make me any more mature or intelligent regarding my hair.
One day, for no discernible reason, I marched into a local salon and asked them to shave my head with a number two.
Thinking I would end up looking like this:
Of course, you can see how this wouldn't have worked.
I even included a big ol' pair of hoops.
At one point, I concluded that since I had been blond as a child, being blond as an adult would make perfect sense.
So one evening, after my children were snug in their beds, a friend bleached my hair and cut it short.
In the morning, Keithie comes into my room to wake me, sees a blond head sticking out from under the sheets and immediately gets Mer, whispering, "there's a blond person in Mum's bed!"
Imagine the trauma when he realized the blond person was me.
This hair choice was the launch of a very tumultuous time in my life.
Bleached blond hair was the least of it.
But it was certainly memorable.
And only now am I contemplating how I scarred my children with my inability to maintain a normal looking hair style.
Some therapist is going to make a fortune during my children's adult lives.
After the bleaching phase, I found Norma.
From Klub Soda.
And since then, for at least a decade if not more, she has cut and colored my hair.
Keeping it normal looking.
And me looking more like the adult I am supposedly supposed to be.
The issue now: grey hair.
On the sides and sprinkled throughout my hair.
As I've said before, I don't mind being grey.
But if that is the course of action for my locks, let it all be grey.
And thyroid medication has rendered my hair somewhat thinner than it used to be at the very front.
Causing me far more distress than I would have imagined.
After all the insults and traumas I've subjected my to, you'd think a little payback would be justified.
Perhaps.
But it doesn't mean I have to like it.
Title Lyric: Hair by Lady Gaga
No comments:
Post a Comment