My hair has been falling out by the handfuls for months. It did the same thing after the births of my older daughters too, resulting in giant bare spots on each temple. When my oldest was about 6 months old, I had to part my painfully thin hair in the middle and pull it around to a low ponytail, just to sparsely cover my skull. I’ve been fortunate, this time around that, while my hair is still falling out at the same high rate, the regrowth started much sooner. Instead of completely bald spots, the lean places have a carpet of wacky fringe that goes whichever way my cowlicks dictate. I’m torn each morning between spending hours at the mirror attempting to stylishly mask my hairlessness, or just surrendering, putting in a headband and ponytail, and wearing my shirt inside out to distract people from looking at my hair.
I wish this battle were something new, but it’s really not. I have hated my hair for as long as I’ve been aware of fashion. I spent my fourth grade year figuring out the pattern of a girl named Beth’s French braids; I hoped I could duplicate her look, but it took four years of attending school with bizarre, tangled messes on my head before I finally got it down. When big hair came into fashion, I couldn’t afford the volume of hairspray it required to make bangs as thin and fine as mine stand up and be teased. I had to skip the late eighties and go straight to grunge.
So here I am, all grown up, and still hating everything about my hair. It’s a blah color. It has no real body or texture. Frankly, I resent every moment of my life that I’ve spent in the chair at a salon, or at the mirror with a curling iron and hairdryer. I was born to “wash and go,” and that fantasy remains out of reach for me. But now you know why I dress the way I do…probably explains a lot.
Don't depend on things like fancy hairdos or gold jewelry or expensive clothes to make you look beautiful. 1 Peter 3:3