Award-winning writer: Jackie Papandrew

Airing My Dirty Laundry!

The Hairy Truth

When I reach the Pearly Gates, and I am allowed to ask one question, I already know what itís going to be. Why, Oh Lord, did you give me my dadís hair?

This may seem to you like a ridiculously shallow question to be asking at such a moment, but thatís because you have not had to spend more than four decades attached to a stringy substance that has resisted my attempts to mold it into something attractive. You, my friend, have not had to live with my fatherís follicles.

Now, those faulty follicles have not been a problem for my father. Thatís because he is a man and, on top of that, heís a HIM (hair-indifferent man). A HIM does not care about his hair. A HIM spends even less time thinking about his hair than he spends wondering if his jeans make his butt look big. If you have problem hair that just lies slouched across your scalp as sluggish as a teenager in the summertime, being a HIM is a real blessing.

Being the daughter of a hair-challenged HIM, however, can be a curse if Ė like me -- you are unfortunate enough to have inherited his calamitous coif. And if -- like me -- you have a mother with thick, beautiful, bouncy hair who dropped the genetic ball, so to speak, at your conception and allowed your fatherís lackluster gene to beat her healthy-hair gene to the punch, you may have enough Oedipal issues to keep any therapist happy (and wealthy). Personally, I plan on skipping the shrinkís couch, though, and eventually just taking the matter up with the Creator himself.

In the meantime, I have to confess I understand why all those wealthy divorcees demand thousands monthly in alimony for personal upkeep. If I could, Iíd spend that much on my hair alone -- perms, cuts and coloring, along with expensive styling products with French names that will surely make my hair look better just by virtue of being French. Of course, given my follicular disability, I would also need a full-time stylist to fix my ďdoĒ every day.

The hairy truth is that stylists know things we mortals just donít know. Whenever I have my hair done at a salon, and my normally limp locks are temporarily looking good, I feel like Iíve beaten the genetic odds. Strangers on the street treat me with more respect. My co-workers ask if Iíve had a face lift or maybe some liposuction.

ďNo,Ē I say. ďItís just that my hair looks decent for once.Ē

So decent, in fact, that after my last salon visit, people were still talking about my hair a week later, even after Iíd gone back to my familiar flat-as-a-pancake look. That should have made me happy, but instead I was melancholy. It was like getting a glimpse of the Promised Land and then having to go back into the wilderness. Iíd tasted life as one of the hair fortunate. It was a bitter pill indeed to return to my helmet-hair existence.

ďCanít you learn to make it look good yourself?Ē my HIM husband asked.

I patiently tried to explain that hairdressers are like golf players. What they do doesnít look hard, and yet, try it yourself and see what happens. Even using the same products and appliances, I simply cannot get my hair to look the way it does when my stylist does it. The only solution is to get a divorce and spend every penny of my alimony to keep a hair dresser at my beck and call.

Iím kidding, of course. Really, dear, Iím just kidding. I should have been born a HIM. Thanks a lot, Mom.

~ Jackie Papandrew ~
© 2008, All Rights Reserved

Jackie Papandrew is an award-winning writer, syndicated humor columnist, coffee addict and mom to a motley crew of children and pets who provide a steady stream of column ideas and dirt. She's also wife to a very patient man who had no idea, years ago when he still had time to escape, what he was getting himself into. Visit her website at:  JackiePapandrew.com

[ by Jackie Papandrew Copyright © 2008, (me@jackiepapandrew.com) -- submitted by: Jackie Papandrew ]

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