Do you even know what your hair is anymore?
After decades of blow-drying and pulling and stretching and coloring and perming . . . how could anyone know?
Years ago I had a long talk with my hair. I made a very strong case, but it simply refused to listen. The battle lines were drawn. My hair wanted to be curly, and me? Nope. It was 1969 — a year full of rebellions — and I had to look like a Mamma from the Mammas and the Pappas– straight hair, parted down the middle. Hello, orange juice cans and Dippity Do.
Until the 1970s when I discovered the Farrah Fawcett look and the blow-dryer, all in the same year.
The 80s . . . well, let’s just forget about the 80s.
In the 90s, my hair had to be blow-dried and ironed straight and sleek by the latest hot stylist. Rain? I stayed in. Humidity? Baseball cap.
Well, I won the war, but lost the battle. As I entered my 50s, I no longer had hair. I had road kill.
After alot of digging, I finally found the solution — letting my hair be what it was meant to be. No more blow-drying (unless I’m in a terrible rush and it’s 32 degrees or colder), and alot less shampoo (especially shampoo with sulfates).
Best of Everything,