Wild Irish Hair

Bad Hair Days exist; there's no denying it.  Many females have spent countless hours trying to quell their rebellious locks on any given day, particularly rainy ones.  I, however, happen to have the unruly, wild Irish hair, and so, am better-acquainted with Bad Hair Days than most, as 94.8% of days are Bad Hair Days for me.  I'm not scared, and I no longer fight it.   I've learned to live with the wild hair.  But it wasn't always so.

In my younger, teenage years, I tried to tame the thick, wavy locks by using such tricks as putting my hair up on orange juice cans (I'm sure that looked other worldly!), and even ironing my hair on the ironing board with my mother's iron (you put a towel on top so as not to catch your hair on fire!).  At one point, I tried a product called Curl Free which did not uncurl my hair in the slightest nor rid me of the waves --the product just made my hair greasy (I was a Greaser!).  Nothing made much difference -- my hair went in where it was supposed to go out, and out where it was supposed to go in...as usual.

My brothers used to joke my hair style should be called "wind-blown."  They would sometimes put their hands in my hair and stir it up (the way only brothers can!), and laugh because it looked the same.  While doing a show at the theatre (Sleeping Beauty) in which I played Trollarina, a naughty fairy, the theatre hairdresser decided for the show to rat my hair out, all over, as far as it could go.  I explained ratting it wouldn't matter as it would look normal again in a short time. The hair dresser just grunted at my naivete. During Dress Rehearsal, the hair dresser ratted my hair, and by intermission, most of the rats had disappeared (just as when St. Patrick drove the snakes out of Ireland) and  I again sported my normal wind-blown do.  Surprised, the hair dresser promised bringing in a super weapon, Extra-Hold Rave, the following night for combat with the wild Irish hair.

Several years ago, my daughter, in an attempt to help me subdue my hair, showed me a product she uses that supposedly perfects curls and banishes frizz.  I found it helped immensely on days when I was running behind and headed to school.  I'd jump out of the shower, spritz my unruly wet locks, and dress quickly before running out the door.  I used my secret time shortcut.  I'd turn the heater on in my car as I drove to work, roll down the window, and as I was driving, hang my head out the window, rather like a dog, to get my hair mostly dry before I arrived at school.  Then I would just stir my hair up with my fingers! Voila!  Poodle hair!

I've rather gotten used to my uncontrollable, wild Irish hair.  My hair does what it wants to do and no one can order it not to do so, although I think a good hair cut by an excellent stylist makes all the difference in the world. Several weeks ago, as I was heading out the door to go to work, my son's fiancee stopped me.  "Cindy, your hair has some major dents in the back you need to fix before going to work."

Faith and Begorrah!  The view in the mirror was astonishingly wicked.  I should have known that I can't shower and expect my hair to look good in the morning, even if I do dry it before bedtime.  Despite the fact I had used my heated curling brush on it, my hair stuck out in multiple directions with major dents in the back.  I should know my hair's surly attitude by this time.  That's why I usually shower in the morning if I want to have any chance at looking presentable.

So, when others are complaining about frizz and such, I can just smile.  Weather doesn't make my hair any worse.  Let the winds blow.  Let the rains come.  My hair is dependable, and unaffected by weather or any hair dressing instrument.  It has the courage to stand up for what it believes, defying all who attempt to control it.  Perhaps it does belong on the head of the person who's kissed the Blarney Stone one too many times.  May your Bad Hair Days grow fewer and far between.