Who knew? Well, hundreds … no, thousands … quite possibly millions of women knew when they experienced it first hand. And, quite possibly, they may have warned the next generation. Or, they were nasty bitches who thought ‘they have youth, they can fork off,’ and kept this little nugget all to themselves.
For some completely forked reason, some/most/almost all women when they reach peri-menopause or menopause, the molecular structure of their hair changes (except for you; female who’s name starts with the letter ‘S’ and who shall remain nameless: bitch). Some blame hormones, some blame diet, some blame hormones and diet, some blame the hormones in the foods in the diet – whatever the reason is: it is forked!
When your hair was your crowning glory (oh yeah, that pun was intended), like mine most definitely was, losing what feels like handfuls of it and/or the losing the thickness of it and/or losing the length of it, is just a tiny bit hard to come to forking terms with. The penny drops … ah, so that is why older women mostly have short hairstyles. Dur!
I knew something was happening with my hair. Initially I thought it was because I had changed shampoo and conditioner brands. My hair started to feel coarse. Perhaps it was my hands, I told myself, after working in the garden – placated for a few more days. After washing my hair, my hands would be covered in long threads of brown locks, say nothing about the shower drain. Maybe I was turning into a werewolf and, so was the drain?
And then, I saw a photo of myself … taken as I was walking … along the beach … on a slightly breezy day … on Facebook. What the fork? Where is my hairline? Where did it go? I could have sworn it used to start a centimetre or two further forward on my forehead. It’s gone out with the tide! Receded back onto my skull almost in line with … my ears! Waaahhhh! Come back! Come back! Swim back to mummy. Forking Facebook!
That was the day I decide to rebel against nature, take matters into my own hands, take charge, make a stand, show my hair who was boss. I went to the hairdresser and snip, boom, bang … one sexy new short hairstyle. Oh yeah! Take that follicles!
I had started a war. Next morning after waking with seriously bad bed head, I washed my hair. I may as well have stuck my hand in a power point whilst having a bath with my favourite fan heater. Gone were the sleek, shiny tresses of yesterday, sitting perfectly in their trendy, geometric, groovy, gelled coif. During the night, some bad bed head hair fairies had been to visit. In place of luscious locks were wire, feathers and cobweb strands; the sticky ones. What the fork? Seriously?
Right! I’ll fix your wagon. Shoving a baseball cap on my head, I go to the supermarket, purchase a semi-permanent hair colour in approximately my natural hair colour (or what it used to be before the greys started appearing at my temples), go home, straight into the bathroom, open packets, bottles, gloves, put this lotion into that bottle with that lotion, shake shake shake, squirt rub squirt rub, rinse, condition, towel dry, et voila!
Hmmm … well that didn’t have the desired effect of restoring the wayward Medusa-esque frizz back to the store bought cool do. Though it did hide the greys for another month. Right! Out came the hair dryer and the newly purchased round styling brush and the newly purchased styling gel. I should have purchased a new me while I was at it. One who has the stamina, strength and gives a flying toss about spending an hour doing their hair.
After five minutes of blowing, brushing and gelling I looked like a band member from Flock of Seagulls – not pretty, not mentally healthy, and not legal (no matter how hard Trump tries to make it so). Plus my arms were so sore from wrangling the hair dryer, the hair brush and the back fat. Ah well, I surrender. Have it your way. Be rebels. You win. Take on the chore of trying to give me the shits every morning.
I had made the fatal error of forgetting that I am no J-Lo or Beyonce; I do not have an entourage at home to maintain my new do. Together with the fact that I have: no interest; no stamina; no strength and having been witness to my back fat being wind blown around my body was enough to make one vomit; though the thought of bits of pea and carrot becoming trapped in fat wrinkles was enough then to stop that urge. Gag-arama! I do have a baseball cap though, and time. Time to grow the high maintenance do out and start again.
A couple of years later, my sun bleached long brown hair is almost at my waist. But it is so fine and wispy, plus I have my new Mickey Mouse meets Dracula hairline. I miss my thick, wavy mane. I think, ‘what if I layer it, that should thicken it up a bit?’ So off she goes, layers her hair, gives herself a fringe. Seriously, who let her have the scissors? Who? What stupid peri-menopausal idiot decides it is a good idea to give herself a haircut and a fringe?
Too late now! There is no turning back. Fork! What have I done? My hair is uncontrollable and a frizzy, wiry mess. Back to the hairdresser, who takes it upon herself to deal out a terrible nanna bob with an even worse fringe. I looked like the Three Stooges had attacked my head. The hairdresser looked at me as if to say ‘this is what you get when you cut your own hair.’ Well, that backfired smarty-farty because if you’re going to make me look like that, I am not coming back!
Ah fork! Back to square one. It is around this time that I have an epiphany. No more high maintenance hair. No more hair dye. No more trying to hide the fact that I am getting older. Suck it up and be a big girl. Find one good trustworthy hairdresser. Have a good, easy to manage haircut and stick with it. Have regular trims to keep the style.
Hubby came to the rescue (the training is working again): ‘Go short,’ he advised. ‘You can carry off a really short hairstyle.’ He picked the style and I found the hairdresser, and between the two of us … um, three of us … we have found a way to stop me from bitching, whingeing and complaining incessantly about my hair. Hubby is one smart cookie; that or he really cannot stand me bitching, whingeing and complaining. Boy, is he in for a surprise! (Fork! I’m fifty!)