...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.
Written by Moran Sheleg
Hair straighteners are definitely one of my top five desert island essentials. That should give you an idea of how reliant I am on my heated lifesavers.
So a whole week of unassisted locks struck fear into my heart. I have a fringe; waves are the enemy. It was all looking very dire indeed. Unfortunately, I had a rather busy week coming up that would prevent me from crawling under the duvet and hiding my shaggy secret from the world.
Day one and, out of habit, I switched on my heaters the minute after brushing my teeth as I do almost every day. Then, remembering my condemnation to a week of frizz-coiffure limbo, I angrily ripped out the socket and threw them across the room, leaving a sizeable scratch on the paintwork of my bedroom wall. Smooth.
Come the second day I was dying to wash my hair as it was looking and feeling rather sad, but time would not allow it. Frantically searching for a hair band (why is it that the minute you need one they're the last thing you can find?), I rediscovered my emergency stash of grips. With a pull here and twist there, I was good to go.
Now, I realise that we are only discussing hair, but it IS a big deal. Very big, if it happens to be as thick and unruly as a drunk WAG on the pull. By Monday mine resembled a bush that had been attacked by a blind man with a hacksaw. Not nice. Still I held out, despite the groups of scared children I left in my wake. Alright, I’m exaggerating…it was one child.
I must concede that there are certain advantages to letting it go with the flow. The time taken to get ready every morning was significantly reduced - I had a whole extra hour each day, which was a godsend considering the mid-term mania that seems to ensue around the week five mark.
Unexpected compliments are a lovely thing anytime, but on what seems to you to be a particularly bad hair day, they are all the more welcome…and surprising. How shocked I was to discover that others weren’t horrified or disgusted by my new do but, on the contrary, some actually preferred it.
After a few words of encouragement from friends and family alike, I have grown tolerant of my curls. According to a reliable source, men actually prefer women to look less than perfect, like they’ve just stumbled out of (their) bed – it reminds them of the morning after the night before, and then they think of sex. In ironically-clichéd style, I couldn’t help but wonder…when it comes to hair, is natural sexier?
It’s tough out there. There is always something to sabotage the painstaking style you spent so long perfecting. I know at least three people who have had unfortunate experiences with airborne bird poo.
So maybe it’s time to welcome variation instead of turning ourselves into a generation of straight-haired, skinny-jeaned, Kate Moss clones. Hopefully this will encourage others to join me in switching off the ceramics (or tongs, for those secret straighties), embrace the natural, and stop pretending to be something we are not.
To end, a friendly word of warning: under no circumstances, at all, should anyone over the age of 12 crimp their hair. Ever.
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