A Bad Hair Life

Sep 12, 2010 | 1 comment

Alizabeth’s Mr. Frizz

     When I met Mr. Frizz in his Seaview garden, I felt an immediate kinship.  Never mind that he is a rooster of the Frizzle variety, so named because their feathers curve outward instead of lying smoothly against their bodies.  Indeed, Mr. Frizz’s feathers went every which way and he seemed to pull his head down and hide among their frowzy tendrils.  Yep!  Been there, done that!
     My hair has been the bane of my existence ever since I can remember.  It is fine, curly, and tends toward frizz if there is even a hint of moisture in the air.  Since I’ve always lived on the coast, ‘humidity’ might as well be my middle name and keeping my hair presentable has been a life-long struggle.   
     I remember that my mother used to put my hair up in rags.  Later on she used kid curlers which were short lengths of flexible wire covered with soft kid leather.  It seemed an endless process to me as a little girl and removing them in the morning was even worse.  Hair caught in the curlers pulled painfully and then I was admonished to sit still while the curly mass was transformed into corkscrew Shirley Temple style curls.  I think they only lasted a day or two – long enough for a special party or to have a professional portrait done.
     Snapshots taken during those years reveal that I often wore hats – bonnets, berets, straw hats – presumably my mother’s attempt to contain my uncontrollable mop.  Yet, everyone said that my hair was my loveliest feature.  That and my eyes.  But no sooner was I old enough to care about such things than a pair of glasses got clapped on my face, effectively hiding my myopic baby blues, and my mother resorted to braiding my hair to keep me looking kempt and sheveled.  So much for the best features!
     Over the years, I’ve tried most everything.  I’ve cut my hair short and let it go however it wants which happens to be curling up on the right side, under on the left. I’ve grown it long and ironed those frizzy tresses on the ironing board.  I’ve chemically straightened it and I’ve rolled it wet over beer cans and slept sitting up while it dried.  I’ve used gels and sprays and smoothing irons.  All way too much effort for too little positive outcome.
     Nowadays, my secret weapon is named Elizabeth.  She works at Marco’s in Seattle which is ridiculously far to go for a haircut but worth every bit of time and expense – and then some.  I walk out of the salon feeling coiffed and gorgeous – well, I still wear the glasses and have a few other concerns that come with age, but these things are relative.  And I can even control my ‘do’ a bit between cuts.  Still… I can relate to that chicken.  Overall, I consider ‘bad hair days’ nothing to complain about.  After all,  I’ve had a bad hair life. 

1 Comment

  1. Stephanie Frieze

    Wow, Sydney, I’ve always admired your hair regardless of how you wore it, long, short, etc, I think because you are so careful with your appearance. Actually, Dave, Ana and I think you’re stunning and nothing like that rooster (which is a hoot–maybe a cockodoodledoo). I think we always want what we don’t have. I had straight blonde hair in the ’60s when it was popular, but thought dark curly hair would have been great since Sophia Loren and Annette Funicello were my idols. As a child my mother must have wanted me to have curly hair because some of my earliest memories were of having my hair up in those pink plastic rollers for perms. There’s a picture of me thus from when I was about 18 months old. Can you imagine putting those sort of chemicals on a toddler?? Maybe they seeped into my brain! I’ll bet that’s my problem. Well, each baby I had took some of the blonde away leaving me with “dishwater” (lovely term). Now I long for the blonde, but I’m done with chemicals. If going to Seattle to get your hair cut makes you feel good I say go for it and the next time make Gig Harbor a way stop!

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