19th Nervous Breakdown....oh, who I am kidding, more like 112th

Ok, let's talk hair.

I've got issues with my hair, to say the very least. But as I'm not one to say the least, ever, I'll elaborate. Basically, I have the worst hair in life. It's super thick. It's not curly, it's not straight, it's not even really wavy. It's kind of situated on this whole different plane of follicular existance, created solely as part of some weird science experiment to see how long I can hold out before beating myself to death my blow-dryer out of sheer frustration. The hair near my face is very curly, like ringlets almost. Then we have the back top region, which is basically straight. Not to be outdone, the underside of my hair closest to the nape of my neck is completely wavy. It's totally unnatural.

Because of my condition, until I was, oh, let's say 12, only half of my hair would be combed. I would get about two inches away from my shoulders and the brush would just stop, thus symbolizing it had reached the point in my hair when the thickness miraculously seemed to double and just flair out, creating an insane amount of knots that could not be detangled without first putting me under general anesthesia. I'm not kidding, those cheap plastic combs would go into my hair and never make it out alive (I like to call it the "Hot Zone"). Pretty much the only time that I had knot free, semi-straight, smooth hair as a child was when my father was given the daunting task of blow-drying it for me (everyone say "awwww").

That's right, on many an occasion my dad would come home from a busy day at The Big High-Powered Law Firm and was forced to style his 8 year old daughter's hair (my mother did her part, believe me, but sometimes she just lacked the sheer upper-body strength needed to battle the 'do. Add that to the fact that by the time I was 10, I was blowing past her in terms of height, making it nearly impossible for her to get enough leverage.) Anyway, my dad had three younger sisters and he now has three daughters, so he is not a stranger to the ways of the scrunchie, friends. I'd even go so far as to say his styling of the classic "half-up, half-down" fashion would rival any father in the neighborhood's, nay, the county. So my father would grip the blow-dryer in one hand, the paddle brush in the other, and begin to style my hair in this rather violent pulling motion (I can understand it though; he was willing to only go so far, there was no sectioning of the hair or curling it around the brush like the hair-stylists do. Partly because the texture and sheer volume prevented it. And partly because you can only emasculate someone so much before you do permanent damage to their psyche) and I would have to dig my nails into the bathroom counter so i was not propelled into the air by the force of the brush. And I would skip off happily, my hair straight (although it looked like I had experienced some kind of wind-tunnel action) until I woke up the next morning, after a force so powerful as my pillow had somehow undone all of the previous night's efforts. And I'd skip off to the bus stop with a rat's nest on my head, leaving behind my father, sliently crying while trying to gather together briefs and documents without the use of his hands, stuck in a perpetual claw-like state and wrapped around the handle of a broken brush. It was a sad time.

Things only got worse in the 6th grade, when I got the UNBELIEVABLY ill-conceived bobbed haircut. Now, if your hair is thick and unruly when it is long and has the force of gravity helping to weigh it down as much as physically possible (i.e., not really at all), then reason stands to imply that your hair will be even more ridiulous when you get a haircut described as "bouncy", but I don't think I ever really took that into account. I also never realized that if you have a heart-shaped face, getting a style that's sole purpose is pretty much to make your chin look even longer and your cheekbones set even wider MIGHT not be the best idea. It was a terrible look.

So in 7th grade I started getting my hair done at the same place that my mom goes to, and besides some misses (such as the infamous Two Blonde Streaks Framing My Face While The Rest Of My Hair Remains Dark Incident of '96, or the Big Bad Bang Affair of this past summer), my hair has been relatively ok. Oh, don't get me wrong, I still break paddle brushes with an impressive frequency, and I have to get my hair thinned out with those weirdo scissor/razor thingies to keep the craziness in check, but no major issues. Until I ran into a problem recently.

Ok, I know that not everyone in Indiana has a mullet and there are many people who get their hair done in Bloomington and it is perfectly normal and no big deal. I am not one of them. I have managed to keep my hair untouched by Hoosier scissors for four long years, buying gels and mousses and hair ties in desperate attempts to just make it to a school vacation before finally getting a trim at home. But remember the aforementioned horrific bang disaster? The fallout of this wretched decision resulted in this stupid uneven looking crap growing out from my head. Add that to the fact that the longest layer of my hair was almost to the small of my back and I knew it was bite the bullet time; I decided I had to just get my haircut in B-town.

But where to go? The answer was simple. Where do you go to get the latest fashions (from four years ago)? Why, the College Mall, of course! For those of you not in the know, this fine venue of high-class commerce houses such classy stores as The Crystal Parrot, Spencer Gifts, Smith's Sport 'N Shoe (no time for the "and", no time!), and Nailtique, to name a few. So I picked one of the THREE hairplaces that they have in this tiny one-level mall, bought a fruit slushee from Auntie Anne's, poured some tequila into it, took a swig, and sat in the chair.

And you know what? It was not terrible at all! And I don't have a mullet! And it cost only 28 dollars, which is like a fourth of what I pay at the other place! And it does not look bad, which isn't really shocking considering I only needed a trim and the front layers angled but STILL! (Below you will find me looking very, very happy that my hair is a little bit less ugly.

I won't even pretend to know how I just ended up cutting my arm off in this picture when I attempted to resize it.)

Which brings me to a whole different point and the whole reason behind the title of this post- we started the Stones in rock history the other day (yeah, I had to deal with the breakup of the Beatles AGAIN but it's ok, we've moved past it.) But because this is the longest entry in life and I will dedicated an entire post to them at a later time (lucky you!!!), I will leave you with just one thought:

If I think this is one of the most beautiful people in the land

does it make me a lesbian? I'm feeling a little confused here. I mean we all know he's a man, but still. He is so pretty.

With fabulous hair.