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It was May 2006, and I was trying to make some sense of my hair in front of the mirror in a tiny Paris bathroom. I wanted to get to the Picasso museum before noon without my coiffure looking like a subject of Cubism.
Thankfully I don't have to contend with my hair frizz routine on a daily basis and only wash it every three or four days. Once I blow dry and flatten it with irons (one round, one flat) it's good until the next wash - smooth and shiny. The infrequency of hair maintenance is handy while traveling, like staying in Paris for a week. Of course hair presentability may not be of much importance on a camping trip to Tahquamenon Falls in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, but I am not about to step foot onto the rue de Rivoli under a frizzy mushroom cap.
So, even though I don't have to torture myself often in the hair ritual, when I do, it is no Parisian bonbon to contend with my bird's nest in a foreign country. The voltage difference is fine for hairdryers since you can go from 110 to 220 with a turn of a switch and an outlet adapter. As for the iron, for the longest time I wasn't willing to lay out beaucoups euros for a European flat iron (last time in Ireland the price had come way down, and I bought one - vive la difference!), and so I was stuck blowing my hair out smooth - a skill I have never mastered. I have carpal tunnel syndrome for one thing, and a lot of hair for another. Standing at the mirror, arms up, holding an unwieldy dryer in one hand and a round brush in the other without tangling the frizz into a rat's nest for 30 minutes is enough to make me want to take a trip to the guillotine.
I hear you mutter that I should just let my hair do its natural thing. After all, aren't I Madame Nature Lover here on the farm? How inconsistent! How vain!
How true.
I imagine what you're imagining. A skull covered by luxurious curls and waves. A romantic maiden's locks you want to run your fingers through. Robert Graves' White Goddess bounding through the meadow, birds mimicking her flowing mane with graceful wings.
Wrong. Nada. Nilch. When I was a teenager, yes I confess my hair was to be envied. Long, wavy and lots of it. But toward the mid-centurion mark, as the face began to sag and languish, a desire for a maturely sophisticated do cropped it gradually until it is now chin length. Easy, right? Wrong again.
My hair is . . . complex. It is my supreme desire to homogenize it. To smooth out its complexities. The under, or bottom, third is hair to die for - thick and with body. The middle third is a little wavier, still fine. The top third, at the crown, is something on the order of Hermione Granger post-magic spell gone haywire.
You see, consistent with my hair, I am a complex person. And while I may value diversity of many kinds and in certain arenas, au naturale isn't acceptable to me here. I just wanna be pretty. Some people's frizz is fetching! Mine is wretching.
This spring's Paris fashion shows brought on the frizz! Some fetching, some, well, let's just say that this is the year I should walk Paris avenues au naturele and be the bomb!
Ohh I love looking at Haute Couture. I only got as far as Jean Paul Gaultier's rockin' runway show with soft Asian rhythms in the background. I still need to watch the rest. His models clearly had good Paris hair solutions: braids and hats (even if some of them are a wee bit mogul-ish). He doesn't need hair frizz to dramatize nothin'. Haute Couture is Art, that's it. Gliding, flowing, fluid, human body art. - -
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Picasso's Woman, Collection of Mrs. John Baker
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