Hair-Raising Tales

Do you know anything more inconsistent than your hair? For an inanimate object, it has a mind of its own. I used to think that hair was hair, covering my scalp, keeping my head warm or cool as the weather shifted. I noticed early on that everyone except me had pretty hair. I was stuck with brown straw, barely style-e-able hair, but I learned I could make it better should I add a little dye or pay big money for a great cut. But that’s not true anymore. Since I became a woman of a certain age (older than dirt), my hair has developed a mind of its own. Some days it goes the way I direct it, other days, it goes somewhere else, and I have to jam a hat on my head to teach it a lesson. That wouldn’t have worked well when I was teaching school or working at the prison, but it does now. Who cares if I wear a hat when I’m sitting in front of my computer writing Wrinkly Bits? In addition, I have eight bottles of hair products sitting on a shelf and accumulated two full drawers of “hair stuff,” curling irons and barrettes, and other goodies that I don’t need, but who’s going to buy used barrettes at a garage sale?

Men start out with hair on their heads, but then they lose it. Case in point, my son has fewer hairs than I have eyelashes, but I love him anyway. He claims that only those with perfect heads, inside and out, are bald. I’m not so sure about that, but he lives in Alaska, so his brain might have been affected by the cold.

So, the question is, when men lose their hair follicles from the tops of their heads, where do they go? You don’t have to think hard because gravity causes them to shift to the oddest places. . . their ears, their noses, and their eyebrows. I’ve seen men who could have braided or permed the hair from their noses, ears, or brows. Some men trim, others let ‘em grow and let nature take its course.

Women lose hair on their heads, legs, and pits, and gain it…you know where, don’t you? Their chins. As a teen, I shaved my legs and pits and worried about all that spare hair in my hairbrush, nearly enough to have stuffed one of the pillow guy’s pillows. Now, the legs and pits stay hairless, but the hairs on my chinny, chin, chin thrive as if I use some sort of hair fertilizer.

Obviously, this is my hairs’ way of reminding me I am not in control, and I‘m waiting with bated breath to see what’s next in this life of senior experiences.

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