Okay, enough with the deep stuff, let’s talk about something that’s more fun. I read an article in last weekend’s paper that gladdened my heart: big hair is on its way back in. Hair straighteners are out.
Hallelujah. ‘Time to release your inner bouf-head’ was the title for the wonderful Maggie Alderson’s Sunday column. I’ve never been into high fashion, but I seldom miss Maggie’s weekly advice. I love it. She combines up to the minute fashion news with sound common sense and humour. And she’s a brilliant writer. Anyway. I was excited to read this because I am a natural bouf-head (except that I could have sworn it was spelt boof-head). My husband is magnificently almost-bald with a buzz cut; the contrast between our heads of hair is a family joke.
I moult profusely, but on my scalp there seems to be a never-ending supply of exuberant growth. (How does that work? I’ve always wondered, never more than when I’m emptying the vacuum cleaner bag every fortnight.)
Pretty much as soon as I hit my teens, my hair went wild – thick and wavy and everywhere. ‘Hmm,’ goes every hairdresser I’ve ever had on the rare occasions I’ve tried to tame the beast, ‘it’s got a mind of its own, hasn’t it?’
It’s always been in the messy middle – not glorious corkscrew curls nor immaculately straight and glossy. Just unmanageable.
Of course I know that what dear Maggie A is on about is not just me being relaxed about my unruly locks. She’s talking serious hard work when she writes: ‘…it will be absolutely normal for us all to be embracing big rollers, setting lotion, backcombing, hair pieces, and gallons of hairspray, to get our hair the way we want it. Humungous.’
The thing is – I’ve never managed to garner the slightest enthusiasm for spending time, money and energy on my hair. Life’s too short. Nor, for that matter, have I ever spent any of the above resources on makeup. And probably most people who know me would say, it shows.
I do care what I look like, I care a lot. But I honestly believe that most of us look best in the colour and texture of hair we were born with, or grew into. Naturally straight hair is a beautiful thing, but hair straightened to within an inch of its life looks, well, dead. Most people sporting that style look like boiled eggs.
I did have my hair professionally straightened once – for an occasion, and it did look elegant I suppose, and certainly neat. But not me. I have a round face that looks better balanced by plenty of hair.
Ditto colour. For years I dyed my hair, until I realised that coloured hair around an ageing face looks harsh. I befriended my greyness years ago and have never been tempted to return to the brassy browns and reds of hair dye. Grey suits the age of my skin. It looks soft and natural.
My mum, who had olive skin, went completely grey in her thirties, and I never knew her as anything but white. She had magnificent, slivery hair which she wore in a French roll. It looked great and matched her elegant style.
Both my daughters have straight hair; the older is a blue-eyed blonde, the younger a green-eyed redhead. Their hair looks just right for them. Before I went grey, I had chestnut brown hair that matched my hazel eyes. Most people look best with what they’ve been given.
The irony, of course, is that most people want what they don’t have. I grew up in India, where one of the most desirable attributes is fair skin. I moved to Australia, where everyone was trying to get a tan. How rarely are those gorgeous creatures with curly red hair, green eyes, white skin and freckles that everyone else envies, happy with their genetic lot? And the rest of us are the same.
So, what I say is, out with the hair straighteners and the rollers and hairpieces and the tins, tubes and tubs of product. Let’s be happy with what we’ve got, hair wise, trusting that chances are, that’s how we look best.