Women have a flood of products aimed at their every need. Television shows are interrupted by commercials for hair coloring, tinting, and conditioning products. Make-up manufacturers rake in millions in profits each year. The general public is even bombarded with a litany of feminine hygiene products as they are peddled between show segments. None of us is too shocked because women have for years have been concerned about their appearances. Nothing shows their concern for appearance as their attention to their hair.
My mother wore a little rouge, she powdered her nose, and she used lipstick on her lips. Her routine was a simple one, so when I began to date in high school, waiting on a girl to finish getting ready made no sense to me. Yes, they had more hair than I did, but drying the stuff didn’t take two hours. I remember when Amy and I began to date. She had long hair that was impossibly thick. She’d have her hair wrapped around giant rollers that gave her appearance another world look. Mother rolled her hair when we were young. She used “spoolies” and bobby pins to make tight little curls. Occasionally, she would have a permanent done by a friend or family member. The stench from those ingredients cleared the house for several hours, and the resulting hair-do was one that resembled Little Orphan Annie. I remember how women during my early years kept their hair pinned up all Saturday so that it would be just right for church.
Later, Mother visited a salon weekly to have a professional fix her hair. Her coiffure was the result of excessive hair teasing held into place with a half can of lacquer (hair spray). Some women still make that trip each week. My mother-in-law is one. Before bed each night she slips a head cover on that keeps her hair from mussing. All that is required the following day is a bit of straightening with a pick. What bothered me most was the fact that women who had their hair fixed each week couldn’t wash the stuff for an entire week. Is a perfect “do” worth all the trouble?
My mother had beautiful hair. It was white. As a teen she contract typhoid fever, and her hair fell out. She swore that it grew back more white than brown. On one occasion she decided that a change was needed. Maybe she wanted a more youthful appearance. Daddy had died when Jim and I were thirteen, and perhaps Mother was trying to be attractive to other men. At any rate, she came home from the beauty salon one afternoon with her hair a light reddish-brown color. Jim and I hooted as she walked through the door. Yes, it was insensitive, but all we’d ever known was our mother’s white hair. Mother was mad at first, but then she was hurt, a fact I wish I could change. She allowed the color to grow out and never attempted another change.
Eventually, Mother grew content with her hair, almost. She kept the natural color, or lack of color. She sometimes visited the salon, but by then, her preference was to have a permanent or a pageboy haircut. Her only other grooming technique was to use a special rinse. Like so many other women, she didn’t want her white hair to have yellow streaks caused either by the sun or her body’s chemical make-up. To combat this yellowing she applied a blue rinse when she shampooed. Mother became one of “the little ol’ lady troops” with the application of this product. Her hair had the same color quality as a white shirt exposed to a black light.
In her last years, mother opted for minimal care of her hair. She kept it cut short and curled in defense against hot summers at Dollywood, where she worked for several years as Miss Carrie. It was still thick, but during the last days of her life, Mother cared nothing about how perfectly fixed her hair was.
My hair is racing to turn gray or turn loose. Sadly, turning loose is winning. These days, my only attention to hair consists of cleaning it from the shower drain. What I have is gray, but I won’t ever have need of the blue rinse to keep it looking nice. Using the product would permanently turn my scalp blue.
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