Be Curly

photo-e1362682257303-764x1024I like to believe I’m a fairly well-put-together person. I like to believe I can roll with a lot, that I don’t sweat the small stuff too much, that I can, in the face of bumps in the road, put on my big-girl britches and deal.

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Like I said, these are the things I like to believe about myself. I didn’t say they were necessarily true. Then I realize it’s the little things that actually make me come off the rails. I can handle too kids with the flu for a week, I can handle $52.47 until payday and I can handle school forms, applications and deadlines. Oh, the deadlines. But one thing I cannot handle is a morning like this one when I discover, towel wrapped around my wet hair, that I’m out of hair product.

You are probably thinking to yourself, “Is this woman actually going to spend the next 600 words talking about hair?”

Well, yes. Yes I am. Among the many valuable lessons I learned in graduate school with five other women is a lesson that has stuck with me all these years since we had the grand luxury of sitting in classrooms, living rooms and barrooms together. You get enough women together and eventually two things will come up: hair and shoes. (Incidentally, I’m wearing a pair of black Frye boots that I’ve coveted since I saw an identical pair on a beautiful boy my senior year in college. He was beautiful, I tell you. I mention them here only because we are, after all, talking about hair and shoes, and because they are so rad that I can only hope for coolness by proximity).

Back to hair.

Since adolescence I have had naturally curly hair. Growing up the humid South, this wasn’t exactly the blessing everyone seemed to believe it was. I spent many an hour with a hairdryer and a roll brush trying to tamp down the frizz, the wayward wave in the exact wrong spot. As an adult, and in a much dryer climate, I’ve been able to land mostly on the good side of mop top but full credit belongs to the handful of goo I put in it every morning.

I use this stupidly expensive stuff in my hair called Be Curly. I have for years, on and off, when I can afford it. It costs something like $22 for 0.02 ounces (I think you actually get a little more than that but, whatever, it’s pricey) and a bottle of it lasts me six to eight months. Then one day, it’s all gone.

So I did what any desperate woman would do in my situation. I cut the top off of the bottle this morning to scoop out the remaining gel clinging to the inside of the bottle. It wasn’t enough. Then I had to open the dreaded bottom drawer that is reserved for old refillable bottles no longer in use and JV hair product. I use it in a pinch but I’m not happy about it. This morning, I put some on my hand and into my hair. Within minutes I had a crispy, Westside Story situation. And running my hands through it all day has not helped. It’s still crispy.

Sigh. I’m just going to stop trying to fix it but I suppose that means I’ll have to stop looking in the mirror today. Not a particularly tall order. I’m going to focus instead on my boots. They have a little mud on them and a silver buckle on the side, black strap across the ankle. My hair is a disaster but my boots, they really are bad ass.