Francie's Hair
Written By Jacquelyn Mitchard
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It's always tough to deal the wealth of good hairs.
It takes about 90 seconds to read this column, so just for a moment, let's skip world peace and the Bush family (actually, the first lady would probably have some empathy on this subject) and talk about something that is on our minds and our heads every day we live on Earth.
Hair.
It's such a cliche. Bad-hair day. I'm embarrassed to put the words down on paper. But I am obsessed with my and other people's hair, as I am with my and other people's teeth. Though this is why my late husband used to call me "the ombudsman for the world," I often want to accost people in $400 wool blazers and say, "Ever heard of dental bleaching?"
You know?
In our family, we have your good hair folk and your bad hair folk. The good hair folk are so good you have to struggle not to hate them, and the bad hair folk are so pathetic you have to struggle not to laugh or cry.
The good hairs don't appreciate their wealth.
"My hair is so darned thick ," complains my new spouse, who has never used a comb, except those little rubber spiky units you use to give your scalp a good scrub in the shower. Styling involves his putting his head out the window while driving the car. He comes out of that looking GQ. I watch him and feel PO'ed.
Obviously, I am of the other ilk. Though the woman who cuts my hair has skills that border on alchemy, she cannot really spin straw into gold. I want to look like Jennifer Aniston (from the neck up; I am not really certifiable) but instead, I look like Snoopy. My hair is fine, which would be fine, except it is also straight, which would also be fine, except it has a sort of wrinkle in it -- no one could call it a wave -- that's more like a limp. Picture Snoopy with one ear permanently turned forward and up. It takes my hair about five years to grow an inch, so a new "look" for spring is not an option. A new "look" takes me as long to achieve as a master's degree. I have actually taken pills for my hair, pills I bought through an ad in a magazine. These worked about as well as you would expect from hair pills purchased through an ad in a magazine. My friend Judy takes Rogaine, but since my hair has always been this way -- that is, it has not diminished -- I think restoring it would be redundant.
Two of our sons have good hair. One keeps his thick pelt short, one long, but both have tresses to kill for. Their hair grows at the approximate rate of an inch per week. Our younger son, who aspires to be an actor and is darned good at it, surely vies with me for the worst hair in the clan. He has double cowlicks, in several places. When he preps his hair for school, the sheer weight of gels and unguents makes it feel like a bike helmet. Since he is also vain, I fear he will end up a combover.
They will, however, grow up men, and like my brother (once the unchallenged hair scion of our family, now definitely losing the battle for aerial coverage) will enjoy the tolerance society affords MWH (Men Without Hair). He also, like my bro, looks nice in hats.
In hats, which I love (conceptually) I look like Princess Margaret.
The truly tragic and triumphant figures in this piece are my younger daughters, who are 2 and 5. The toddler's hair has inspired many photos, none of which she will want shared with future sweethearts.
She has hair like auburn-colored cotton candy, fizzy in back and flat and greasy in front.
She has outstanding eyelashes, though. I'm thinking Winona Ryder.
It's my 5-year-old who drives me wacko. Though I don't have the ordinary "issues" women have about their daughters -- Will she be fat? Will she be popular? Will she get into Smith? -- I will not let my 5-year-old cut her perfect hair. I'm telling you, this is hair that makes Jennifer Lopez's hair look like Barbie's.
It is black and thick and shiny and bouncy and looks great even uncombed, which is what it generally is since she is God's own tomboy and screams like a hyena in heat when she sets eyes on a hairbrush. I long to braid her hair and to adorn it. I buy scores of little barrettes and clips and bows, all of which she rips out the instant I turn my back. Francie's only objection to appearing in a regional production of "The King and I," as the littlest princess, was wearing a crown.
What's the matter with her? What little girl wouldn't want to wear a crown? "It feels like a big fat bagel," she said, every night. "Can I get my hair cut like a boy when this is over?"
Why can't she let me live a little?
On the other hand, though I have known scores of women scarred for life by their mothers' preoccupations with their scholastic and romantic lives, I have never heard of a girl who grew up twisted because her mother lived vicariously through her hair.
Unless you count that one chick, Rapunzel.
©Tribune Media Services. All Rights Reserved. Reprinted with permission.
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