H is for Hair

The next chapter in the Dictionary of Me is a bit of an insight into my vanity… I guess most women are vain in some way… aren’t they?  I mean, has anyone ever done a research project into the % of western women that own a mirror?  I would think that would be pretty close to 99%, right?

I’m pretty sure that I’ve spent more money on my hair over the course of my 30 years than I have on all the make-up I’ve ever bought.  In fact, the investment in my hair would probably equate to somewhere between four times the amount I’ve spent on skincare and maybe a quarter of what I’ve spent on clothes… but probably roughly equal to what I’ve spent on shoes in my life.  Isn’t the currency of women a fabulous thing?

So, my hair.  Where do I start?  I considered making this a photographic post, so you could all laugh as I took you on a trip along the Hair Horror Highway that was my childhood and early teens.  But with divorced parents and a distinct lack of organisation skills when it comes to photo storage, that would’ve required a few trips around Australia to gather the “evidence” and I probably would’ve chickened out when my vanity came face to face with harsh reality.

So instead, you will have to use your imagination, which for some of you, will make this even more enjoyable.

The possibility of me having gorgeous hair in childhood was sabotaged by two things:

1)  I grew up in the 80’s
2)  My mum often had her sister (my aunt) cut my hair… the same sister that used to cut my mother’s hair using a pair of scissors and a bowl when they were both young girls.

For several years I endured a ‘page boy’ cut, which was just a euphemism for bowl cut, which later turned into this bizarre wind-tunnel-inspired look that was probably meant to be based on Farrah‘s famous hair, but simply managed to age a ten year old by 20 years.

But, although I am making this sound like my mother tortured me from birth, she was actually kind enough to introduce me to the wonders of changing one’s hair colour.  At age eleven, I got my first blonde “streaks” and since then, my hair has never spent a day being it’s natural colour.  In fact, if you asked me what my natural colour is, I couldn’t tell you.  My hair has been:

– mousey brown with blonde streaks
– brown and caramel foiled to within an inch of it’s life
– chestnut brown
– mahogony red / auburn
– dark brown with red rinse
– black with purple ‘tufts’
– black with blue ‘tufts’
– black with red ‘tufts’ (ok you get the idea)
– platinum blonde
– yellow, whilest on the way to platinum blonde
– black
– darkest brown

It’s been darkest brown for some time now, so I may have grown out of my compulsion to change my hair as often as I change my socks, but I think this is more out of laziness than maturity.

My hair has also been chemically enhanced every which way – perms, chemically straightened, treatments, proteins, exotically made (and priced) conditioners, ionic equipment, you name it, I’ve tried it.  Once I even went on a hair-detox and didn’t wash it for a whole year.  Seriously.

The cupboard under the bathroom sink is full of hair gels, creams, glosses, mooses, sprays, heat treatments, bobbypins, hair elastics, clasps, hairdryers, hair straighteners, hair curlers, brushes, combs and swizzel-sticks. It’s a wonder I have any hair left on my head!

In summary, the many sides to my hair = the many sides to Justine.

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