I knew right then it was going to be a bad hair day.
Even on a low humidity day, my hair has a mind of its own. My hair is a direct gift from some lumpy-haired Norwegian foremother—thick, sturdy hair genetically designed to be tied back into a practical bun while hoeing a potato field in Norway. It was never intended to be worn in some modern sleek, silky cascade or a tousle-haired flow. My hair was intended to provide warmth in a cold, Arctic Circle climate, kind of like a worsted wool knitted cap, perched on top of my head. It was never designed for beauty; it is thick, lumpy, utilitarian hair.
I’ve never been good with hair appliances. It seems like I don’t have enough hands to manage all the maneuvering that need to be done simultaneously. “Straighten your hair,” I am advised. “Round brush your hair,” someone else says. Fluff it or smoosh it or crisp it or fry it . . . it doesn’t make any difference. I never have enough hands and it always ends up looking the same. And throw in a little humidity—oofda feeda (the only Norwegian swear words I know). It’s Larry from the Three Stooges, it’s Albert Einstein, it’s Danny DeVito—all three of their hairdos rolled into one.
My sympathies, Albert. I know how you feel.
I went for a three-mile walk in that humid afternoon, and when I came home, my hair had turned feral—like some wild animal with its paw in an electrical outlet, perched on my head. Like Davy Crockett’s coonskin cap on methamphetamines. I went the rest of the day with three hair bands holding it in place, like little lassos roping a wild mustang. I was afraid if I took them out, my hair would frizz out and knock pictures off the wall.
I’m not normally a vain person, but I may have to cancel all social engagements until the weather changes and we get some more of that nice, dry Canadian air. You know, the fair hair air.