On the subject of hair

Raise your hand if you hate your hair.

Yup, me, too. When I was younger, I hated it because it was down to my butt and straight as a board, too fine to hold a curl. My mom loved it. My grandmother loved it. Try bucking those two.

My sophomore year, after I convinced my mother that I would suffer permanent psychological damage if one more football player yanked on my braid, she cut it off in layers. This was the 80s, mind you, and big hair was in. Thank God for hot rollers -- but curse 'em, too, because my curl usually all fell out by lunchtime. And that was on a good day.

So after I graduated from college, I said, "To heck with this. I'll just get it cut in a bob and wear it straight."

Only whaddya know? The dang stuff CURLED. It wouldn't STAY straight.

I progressively got it cut shorter and shorter, until it was to the point my own mother begged me to let it grow out. My hubby kept telling me to get it "just like it was when I first met you." Yeah. Right.

In a fit of insanity, I did that -- well, let it grow out longer, if not the same style. I thought I would kill me, the hair dryer or my husband, none of which was a good thing. So I chopped it all off again.

In the midst of all this, I started having trouble with finding a hairdresser. My usual hairdresser, who had been doing my hair for years, is rich enough (or content enough) to work only weekday mornings (except Wednesday, when he's off all day.) Not good for my schedule.

I won't bore you with the tears and travails I've had trying to find me someone who is good, open on Saturdays and will continue to cut hair. I'm having about as much luck as an explorer trying to find definitive evidence of Big Foot or The Loch Ness Monster.

But my hair is in dire need of a cut. Dire. I'm beginning to look like a sheep dog. Plus, we won't mention all those grays I keep seeing creep in there. Maybe they'll think they're highlights?