...and don't panic! The Know brings you advice during housing
A true friend is always there for you, especially when you're drunk.
Miss Quit regresses to her childhood this week as the prospect of beginning the "University of Life" looms.
Just like crack, hair-colouring is a habit that grabs you and doesn’t let go. With great high(light)s, and greatly contrasting lows, once you’ve had a taste, there’s no going back, as I have discovered along my own quest for Hairvana (like Nirvana, but glossier and more allusive).
It started innocently enough. About 12 months ago, feeling a bit fed up with the dark follicles God gave me, I opted to lose my hairginity and go for some subtle, coppery highlights. Only, things didn’t stay subtle for long. Before six months were out I had gone from a dark, and I mean dark, brunette to possessing ultra-light golden locks.
No matter how ‘interesting’ my re-growth began to look against the artificial blonde, or how progressively frazzled my ends became, I was absolutely hooked to the bottle. Soon enough my hair was battling with my complexion, my family had taken to referring to my fake shade as ‘camouflage’, and I was beginning to wish I’d never bothered in the first place.
If that was not enough, my bank balance, if not the conversational topic of my IQ, had also been stripped of its vitality, and, as attached as I had become to my fair mop, something snapped inside that made me suddenly desperate for dark, shiny, raven tresses again. So the quest began anew, this time back down the colour spectrum.
Off I trotted to my stylist for the bazillionth time, clutching the magazine clippings I had culled over the past few sleepless nights of hair-obsession. The same look of despair, with the hint of quietly concerned disapproval that only hairdressers and mothers can yield, hovered in her eyes as she anticipated my oft-repeated “blonder please!” request. She practically jumped for joy when the opposite left my lips.
About three hours, much inane chatter, and some more wallet damage later, I emerged fully restored to my former brunette glory, with a sheen of red thrown in for fun.
Gentlemen may prefer blondes, but sometimes you have to be true to your roots.
There is no way of avoiding clichés within this week’s quit, and so, like my own roots, I have decided to embrace them. I am a woman, I am fickle, I like talking about and getting my hair done. A lot. And I must say I felt just as stupid before my blonde days as I did during them, and I don’t feel any more sensible now with brown hair than I did the other day when I was without it - so much for that stereotype.
Redheads are no feistier than any other hue, and don’t even get me started on the preposterous notion of the sex-appeal-to-hair-colour ratio; it’s all a pile of toupee. It is not just a woman thing either though, and if you don’t agree than I refer you to the million-dollar industry that is hair-replacement treatment for balding and denial-ridden men. Hell, look at the headlines David Beckham makes every time he touches his (very attractive) head.
Scrap what I said earlier, woman isn’t fickle, she’s just human when it comes to what grows atop her mug, and human life as we all know is an endless struggle of frustrations and challenges, but eventually, if you’re lucky, you find a hairstylist you like. And if not, you can always look back and be thankful that your hair wasn’t styled in the 80s, or if it was that it doesn’t look like that anymore.
So what if it is shallow and fleeting, addictive and irritating, stereotypical and capricious? For if truth is beauty, how comes no one has their hair done in a library? Coiffure may not be everything, but its no less a decent place to start.
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