October 2, 2000
Passionately Snooty

 


 
I am having a Good Hair Day today.

No. Wait. Amend that.

I am having the BEST DAMN HAIR DAY of the YEAR.

I'm not surprised. For a few days after a decent trim and an $11 box of hair color, I usually enjoy a golden period ... a sort of "hair honeymoon," if you will ... when everything just magically falls into place for a while, 'do-wise. Generally with very little effort on my part. In fact, with a minimum of fuss and muss (and a squirt of Executive-Strength Aqua Net), I can leave the apartment in the morning looking like a sort of combination first-season "That Girl"/second-season "Mary Tyler Moore Show" and (more importantly) come home looking the same way, nine and a half hours later.

And in the meantime I don't have to worry about my hair at all.

Of course, a licensed *hair care professional* would probably take one look at me today and say, Jesus H. Christ on a pair of KITCHEN SHEARS, Secra!! Did your boyfriend cut your hair or whut?!? ...

... or, Jesus H. Christ on a pair of disposable plastic gloves, Secra! Only teenagers (and Big Brother contestants) color their own hair!! ...

... or, Jesus H. Christ on a Glacier High School Class of '76 Yearbook, Secra!! Ever think about updating that 'do??

And the truth is: yes, my boyfriend cuts my hair. He's been cutting it for about a year now, ever since the time I tried to trim it myself during a 72-Hours-From-Hell weekend, and he stepped in to save me from myself. He's been cutting it ever since, and he does a neat, serviceable job. Plus the price is right. (Plus it gives me goosebumps when he touches my hair.) And yes, I color it myself. And yes, I'm still wearing my hair in the same basic style I've worn since high school. Occasional attempts to alter the laws of genetics -- and follicles -- have been disastrous. (Just ask my mother and the nice ladies at the Comb & Brush Salon.)

But that's OK. I like it. David likes it. I still get the occasional unsolicited compliment, usually from people wanting to know if this is my natural color. ("Sort of," is my standard response.) And every eight years or so, my long, straight, middle-parted hair is fashionable for about fifteen minutes again.

I can live with that. It's not like it's life and death we're talking about here, after all. It's only hair.


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This reminds me of the best Internet journal *rant* I ever read.

It was written by a woman who either owned or worked in a hair salon -- I can't remember the exact details, and I've never been able to find my way back to her website again, so I can't post a link for you -- but I do remember that she took her profession very, very seriously. It wasn't just about cutting and styling hair, to her: it was art. It was a religion. The way she wrote about her training, and her background, and her experiences with her various clients was incredibly passionate and involving.

You could almost smell the peroxide.

The funny thing is: she had absolutely nothing nice to say about women who cut or colored their own hair. She swore that she could spot us a mile away. In fact, from her disapproving tone I got the feeling that she'd like she'd like to round us all up, bang our heads together and shout Step aside, you morons, and let a trained professional handle this!!

At first this woman's attitude annoyed me. Who the fudk does she think she is?, I thought. We're talking about HAIR, forcryingoutloud.

But by the third or fourth time I read her journal entry, I was starting to *get* it. She was seeing the do-it-yourselfers through the filter of her own expertise, and through her love for her craft. In that context, I was able to appreciate the beauty of her rant.

I still think it's sort of a dumb thing to get worked up over. But it remains one of my favorite all-time Internet *reads,* anyway, because of the eloquence and passion she managed to convey through the power of her wordswordswords.


      *      *      *      *      *      *      *


We all have things we are passionately snooty about.

I'm that way about words. I get downright bitchy when I see people mangling the written word. (I just want to bang their heads together and say Step aside, you morons, and let a trained professional handle this!! But then of course I'd have to go out and FIND one.)

I feel that way when I read a letter written by a self-proclaimed "business professional" filled with more spelling bloopers and grammatical gaffes than a junior high school newsletter.

It's how I feel when TripleDGrrrl@aol.com writes me e-mail, exhorting me to send her my AOL password -- and a credit card number, while I'm at it -- in order to "asure better service." ("What have you got to loose?," she asks me sweetly.)

It's how I feel when Franz returns another draft of the Totem Pole Newsletter to me with a little scribbled note to Please restructure, i.e. reformat to include additional information preternite to reflect crop. policy.

(Say whut?)

Am I snooty? Condescending? So full of myselves I should probably require a separate Zip Code, just for my ego? Yes, probably.

Am I a fine one to talk, with my "fudks" and my "shidts" and my "stoopids" and my "forcryingoutlouds," and my paragraphs that start with "And" and "Of course" and "But," and my ... too-frequent ... annoying ... use ... of ... dots ... and my BOLDS and my subscripts and my strikeouts and my RANDOM capitalization of CERTAIN WORDS for EMPHASIS ...

... and my run-on sentences that just seem to go on and on forever, without any rhyme or reason (or punctuation)? Yeah.

But whut the hell. It's not like it's hair we're talking about here, after all.

It's only wordswordswords.



one year ago: vomiting in my purse!
[or: how to make sure he NEVER asks you for a second date]



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