Bad Hair Day

Last night we drove to Newark to have dinner with Vince’s dad.  Since it was a beautiful, still warm and sunny evening, we drove with the top down on the convertible.  I both love and hate this.  I love having the wind in my hair…but, once I arrive at our destination, I hate having had the wind in my hair. 

Despite numerous barrettes, clips and coated rubber bands to hold my hair down, it still manages to escape from its confines and by the time we arrive, I look like a crazy lady.  Doesn’t matter how much I try to pat my hair down or drag my fingers through it to tame it, it remains impossibly tangled.  I keep telling myself to carry a brush in my purse, but I’m afraid if I were to try to brush my hair afterwards, I’d rip all the hair out of my head.

The worst thing is when I forget about the state of my hair after we arrive in the convertible.  A few weeks ago Vince and I drove about 20 miles to our friends’ house to help decorate for their wedding, which was taking place the next day.  We had a lot of work to do in a short period of time, so I got right down to business.  During the course of the afternoon, we were introduced to several members of the wedding party whom we had never met before. 

After a couple hours, we finished our tasks and I stopped in to use the restroom before we left to drive to our next stop.  While I was washing my hands I happened to glance up at the mirror…and I was horrified.  I closely resembled Albert Einstein on one of his really bad hair days, although I think I might’ve looked just a little worse. 

At least it explained the behavior of the other members of the wedding party since they seemed to keep a healthy distance between us.  Maybe they were a little afraid how the crazy lady would react if they were to ask to borrow the scissors.

It also explained the huge sigh of relief one of the other bridesmaids heaved when she asked me if I planned to join them at the hair salon the next morning and I said yes.

All told that day we drove about 150 miles – much of it with the top down on the convertible.  So you can just imagine how much conditioner I had to use on my hair in the shower later that evening in order to get a comb through it.

Fortunately, Vince didn’t even try to suggest we drive with the top down the next day as we headed to the wedding after I’d had my hair coiffed at the salon and my makeup professionally applied.  Smart guy.

I’m seriously considering buying one of those long white chiffon scarves that ladies in the 50s wore tied around their heads to keep their hairdos intact.  They’d arrive at their destination, whip off their scarves and the little curls all over their head would look exactly the same as when they’d stepped out of the beauty parlor five days prior. 

Yeah, I can just see it now.  The ends of that long diaphanous scarf can trail in the wind behind us as we zip along and I can wear bright red lipstick and big Jackie O sunglasses so I can look all mysterious and stuff.

Except that I (a) don’t have little curls all over my head, (b) don’t look good in red lipstick anymore, and (c) know I couldn’t handle the taunts I’d be sure to hear: “Hey, Jane.  The 50s called and they want their look back!”  Besides, I’m not really the mysterious Jackie O type.

I’ve also considered simply donning a ball cap.  Only reason I haven’t is because of the whole hat head issue afterwards.  I’d have to leave it on all during dinner and that seems a little rude when practiced by either men or women.  And I’m not really a ball cap kinda girl.

This is one time I envy Vince’s full head of curly hair.  When we arrive at our destination, he looks no different from when we started.  Well, except for maybe last night since he’s about a week past due for his regularly scheduled haircut.  Whenever he’s overdue, he has to use massive amounts of gel-type product to keep his hair plastered relatively close to his scalp lest he risk being called Ronald (as in McDonald).  Driving in a convertible is not conducive to keeping his curls in check, so he told me I was going to see his version of the white man’s afro.  Yikes.  Hair Club for Men members might be a little jealous, but they’d be about the only ones.

Probably we should’ve considered ourselves lucky last night that Vince’s dad even agreed to be seen out in public with us.

Oh well.  I suppose it could be worse.  Like we could both be bald and suffering from severe sunburn on the tops of our heads from driving around in a roof-less car.  Or it could be October in Ohio and we might not get another opportunity to go for a ride with the top down on the convertible again until next spring. 

Oh.  Wait a minute…

Crap.