That's what this is. This is a straight Hair-mageddon.

Nothing less.

I know what you're thinking right now. I can feel it. I can sense your vibes through the murky internet waves and I know you're rolling your eyes and sighing with exasperation.

Let the record show, you've just sighed with exasperation.

You think I'm being dramatic. Overly-dramatic.

And you would not be wrong.



This is nothing short of an emergency. My hair has reached its limit and with it, I'm positive afraid, my sanity.

I realize that no one on this entire planet not everyone is as obsessed with my hair as I am, but hang with me for just a bit while I regale you with a tale of trauma, timing and bad roots.

The Hair Crisis of 2015 actually started back in November of 2014. Yes. It's been going on for that long. You're heartbroken for me. I can feel that too through the internet vibrations and I just wanted to take a moment to thank you for your sympathy.

On second thought, I think we can trace this hair saga back to last summer.

It was a beautiful summer, filled with lazy days and late nights. We traveled a lot. We spent time with family. We whiled away the days with running through the sprinkler and ice-cold beers on the patio. Fireworks on the Forth of July. Hamburgers on the grill. Starry skies. And lemonade by the gallons.

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times mostly the best of times.

It was during that haze of utopia that I decided it would be best if I went blonde.

I had spent years of my life trying to work dark, wild and raven-haired. But I turned thirty in 2014 and let's get really honest, Brunette stopped working for me somewhere during crow's feet and laugh lines.

Dark and sultry stopped being sexy and turned into something you might find in a Disney film. Carrying a poisoned red apple.

That's right, my goth-chic evolved into something hag-like and not-safe-for-children.

In a nutshell, I started to look old.

Older than I was comfortable with looking.

Let's get real, I'm older than I'm comfortable being. But there's not really anything I can do about that.

Sure, I could probably eat a little bit healthier. I could maybe not drink so much... I could also get into shape and start exercising regularly.

But let's not get crazy.

I want quick easy fixes that can stave off a plastic surgeon's consultation for just a few more years/decades. I want to add something to my life that requires little to no effort and that I don't have to remember, because chances are unless I tattoo it on my forehead, I won't remember it.

Basically I want to change everything, without doing anything.


Okay, moment of truth, I'm mostly joking. I have been working on this healthy mind, healthy body kick for a while. I gave up soda, for instance. That was hard.

That was really freaking hard. 

But I'm feeling much better and I know (after watching the youtube video where a can of Pepsi turned that dead rat into jelly) without a shadow of a doubt that I made the right decision.

Anyway. Back to my hair.

So last summer I decided that I should try something other than... black/brown/chestnut/espresso. I stepped out of my comfort zone. The one that represents everything weird, eclectic and black monotony that I think writer's are entitled to have been blessed by God Himself with. And entered a new world.

An undiscovered, untraveled, unexplored territory. I stepped onto this new planet, sunk my feet into the blonde earth and planted my marker.

I claimed that land for my own and built a log cabin. Pioneer style.

This is mine. My new home. My new... hair.

Do you have any idea what I'm talking about???


I'm a little confused myself.

Let's clarify.

Basically, I went from always having brunette hair to having blonde hair.

Well, there was this one time in college when a box of highlights went terribly wrong and my never-before-touched mousy brown turned as bright as the sun. A beacon of tangled bleached curls that swallowed my head and glowed in the dark.

I was.... alarming to look at.

But that was college. We're all allowed to make mistakes during those years.



The good news is, eventually... two years later... I was able to fix the damage done.

It was then that I swore never to color my hair again.

Wasn't I cute? Wasn't I adorably naive?

Wasn't I stupid young?

Because at twenty years old I didn't need to dye my hair. I didn't have grays to hide or wrinkles to soften. My skin was youthfully tight and my hair shone like a Garnier Fructis commercial.

Fast forward ten years and I can't even remember my original hair color. When it grows out these days it's all GRAY. (See what I did there?)

Nothing shines. Nothing glistens in a camera-ready way. Nothing stays where it's supposed to.

 Grrr... gravity.

My once low maintenance hair has become a cluster of products and appointments. I don't simply use three squeezes of my favorite gel anymore. After a shower, I slip on a lab coat, set out my beakers and begin testing chemicals and conducting toxic experiments in hopes that I'll concoct the correct product cocktail to tame this jungle of frizz.

For some evil, malicious and potentially liberal agenda-ed unknown reason, Nebraska has stopped carrying my favorite hair gel.

Here is a picture of it.

Are you jealous???

Just kidding. I'm perfectly aware of how hazardous that looks. Possibly the Ninja Turtles were born from this very substance. Probably the hole in the ozone layer can be linked back directly to this product.

This is not a safe for children hair gel. This particular ooze should be reserved for nuclear warfare and the off chance that your show pony needs a perm.

And me.

Because it works so good!

For the every day person, this potent bottle of neon yellow sticky stuff would turn your hair into a titanium helmet. Nothing could penetrate the sheer, shiny solidity.

For me? You can't even tell I use a product! My thick porcupine quills strands absorb that stuff like it's the nectar of the gods.

In Greek, Mega Mega Hold really means Ambrosia.

And I NEED it.

But I can't get it.

Although, some really helpful people on Facebook told me about this site, drugstore.com. Which I had no idea existed. And thank heavens, I can buy it on there.

In the meantime, this is what I've downgraded upgraded to.

I mean... WHAT????

Holy hair products, Batman!!!!

There are so many.

Granted, I don't usually use them all at once... just five or six at a time.

That can't be any better than Mega Mega Hold. That at least has to be in the same Carbon Footprint Ballpark as Mega Mega Hold.

And that's not the worst of it.

Not only am I having Product Issues.

I'm having Stylist Issues too.

You guys. My hair stylist broke up with me.

She broke up with me!!!

**cries hysterically into her tub of Ben and Jerrys**

Do you know what this has done to me? Do you know what kind of deep, dark, irreversible depression funk I've fallen into?

I mean, sure, she just had a baby and she wants to stay at home with her kids. Obviously I kind of definitely understand her decision. And I fully support her in every way.

I think it's awesome she gets to be home with her children.

I am totally in every way not in any way bitter that she would choose those rugrats beautiful children over my hair.

Clearly they are so much more important than my hair and my needs and my problems. I would never hold it against her.



Never ever.

I'm a stay at home mom too. I 35% 110% get it.

She did the right thing for her family. And really isn't that just what we're all trying to do?

I'm not anything but selfish bitter whiny hair-depressed happy for her.

No, seriously you guys. I really am happy for her. And I truly hope I wasn't even a blip on her radar when she made her decision. She had TONS of loyal customers, who would have done anything to stay with her. But clearly, her family needed to come first. She was good at what she did, but she will be great at home.

I truly believe that.

Meanwhile, I'm out of a hair stylist and my roots are six Inches LONG!!!!!

My hair is the opposite of pretty and put together right now. Trust me when I say, there is absolutely no way to take me seriously as an adult.

My frizzed-out, half-brown, half-blonde, salt-and-pepper Medusa throwback is a sight to behold.

I'm a little afraid of the lasting damage I'm imparting on my children. Or the kids in our neighborhood. Or any human being that accidentally comes into contact with me.

I can't even take my hair seriously right now. I look and the mirror and can't help but laugh. It's ridiculous.

Go home, Hair, you're drunk!!!!

I need to get it done. I do. I just need to call up some complete stranger that supposedly went to hair school, so they supposedly know how to handle any kind of hair, and sit down in their chair and trust them.

Trust them not to F THIS UP.

Because as bad as it is right now... it can get worse.

Oh, so much worse.

Before I found this last hair stylist, I went through an entire phone book of bad stylists. And let me just say, that even though my hair physically healed, the emotional damage will last a life time.

One of them gave me bangs. Really short, eyebrow-length-when-it-was-wet-and-straight... bangs. (Just imagine how short they were when those curls dried... Yikes!!)

Let's face it, as much as I love the straight-bang look, curls and bangs do not mix.

In fact, they shouldn't even come into consideration when someone has curly hair! There should be a universal law against cutting bangs on curly-haired girls.

Who do I need to talk to in order to make that happen???

For real.

The UN? The League of Justice???


And as crazy selfish as this sounds, it's not just about me! If you can believe it, I'm really thinking about them!!!

It takes four hours to do my hair. Four.

That's not even a little bit of an exaggeration. It takes four hours to cut and color this nest.

I don't want to do that to somebody.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

In the past, I've led with that. I don't want the poor stylist to walk into something they're not prepared for. So I tell them upfront, that my hair is a time warp and they won't be leaving for the next four hours.

They usually laugh, full of pride and naivety, and say, "I don't know who's been cutting your hair, but it won't take me that long."

They're so cute.

4.5 hours later... they understand.

They don't style my hair. They go to war with it.

Now I have to do that all over again... I have to ruin some poor soul's afternoon by having the most difficult hair on the planet.

There's no amount of tip that can make up for that.

Okay, that's probably a lie. I'm sure there is a dollar amount that can make all of that time and energy worth it.

I'm just too cheap on a budget and can't afford to write the check for their firstborn's freshman year of college.

Do you understand my dilemma? I'm stuck. I'm stuck with frizzy hair and gray roots.

And it's all because I went blonde last summer.

I could hide these roots if I'd stuck with chocolate. Or rich auburn. Or any other color but blonde.

But no. I went blonde and now my head is two-toned.

I've been telling everyone that it's a reverse hombre. That sounds legit right???


So wrong.

There's no such thing as a reverse hombre!! It's not real! I made it up!!! That's how desperate I've become! I've started to MAKE UP hair styles!!!

Why is being a girl so hard????

That was a real question. Does anyone have an answer?

Can I blame this on Eve and the Fall of Man?

Good, because I'm going to.

Just like I blame cramps and laundry on her. (Because they were naked in the Garden of Eden and didn't need to wash clothes. One of my good friends told me that one and I had to agree. Thanks a lot for laundry, Eve!!)

The good news is that tonight I'm going to try Plopping. (Which is a method of drying your hair by wrapping your wet curls in a t-shirt, in case you thought I had a bowel issue on top of everything else.)

We'll see how that goes. At this point, I'm not holding out much hope. But come on, Universe, this head of hair needs a miracle.

Or at least a solid recommendation for a hair stylist.

I'll take either at this point.




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