There are some things I have come to accept in life, birth, death, taxes, cellulite and the fact I was not blessed by the hair gods. *
Except for a fleeting moment in the ’80’s when my naturally curly hair was bang on trend, à la Madonna in Desperately Seeking Susan mode, I’ve had to live with the frustrating knowledge that my hair was not intended for Charlie’s Angels flicking greatness.
I have fine, curly hair that is no longer blonde. In fact, I have no idea what colour it is anymore I’ve been dyeing it for so long. But I think it’s pretty accurate to say it’s increasingly grey. Not just a little creep around the temples but scattered over my entire head (sneaking into the eyebrows too and yes the collar probably does match the cuffs, but I try not to look).
Anyway, after months of struggling with a graded bob that was more blob than chic lob, last haircut I decided to channel Halle Berry. I was going to go the Pixie cut and darker. I’d ditch the foils and go for a block colour. I was feeling confident about my decision, helped by my hairdresser who was excited by the prospect of change.
The colour was plastered on my head, I had my coffee, my Who magazine and was just catching up on whether Brangelina were divorcing, adopting or solving the Middle East peace problem, when disaster struck.
Disaster in the form of a woman sitting alongside me, who was not so much blessed by the hair gods, she was probably the original hair goddess herself. She had acres of thick. long blonde hair. The kind of hair destined to be captured in a slo-mo Charlie’s Angels flick and toss manoeuvre.
There was a tightening in my gut, my coffee tasted bitter and Who had lost its glitz. I was overcome by Hair Envy. Did I care that she was very attractive, stylishly dressed and maybe 15 years younger me? No. (Okay, just a little, but this is about hair.) No. I wanted extensions, bleach, hair transplants from Shane Warne’s hair studio. I wanted her hair. The hair I’ve longed for ever since Madonna’s Holiday stopped being played on Countdown.
It’s not too late, I told myself. Maybe I could keep the colour and not do the cut. Maybe my unruly curls would develop a glamorous-come-hither-Hollywood-siren wave they’d never before shown any sign of developing. Would the Elfin Mia Farrow cut look more Dyke on Bike?
I was saved by own embarrassment. The embarrassment of saying to my hairdresser I want Hair Goddess’s hair.
So for the past six weeks I’ve been more Pixie than Goddess. It’s been wonderful not playing the guess what- my-hair-is-going-to-do-game every morning. I haven’t been asked to appear in Charlie’s Angels, but then I haven’t been invited to take a ride on the back of a bike up Oxford St either. And today I went back and re-Pixied.
Educational video for those too young to remember. Or, a totally gratuitous clip of Madonna performing Holiday. Enjoy.
* Yes, these are definitely things I know, especially the cellulite and hair you never thought about turning grey, does.