I really wish there was a hair hotline for people to call when they are about ready to get out the weed whacker or dog clipper and whack it all off.
“Hair Hotline. Is this a hair emergency?’
“Yes, it is,” I assured Ms. Hair. “I’ve been growing my hair out for months, and I’m about ready to take a Weed eater to it. My bangs hang halfway down my eyes, and poke me like little kids tickling their younger brother. It’s really annoying. I’ve tried gel, mousse, and every type of hairspray on the planet, including pizza-flavored. But that only resulted in a crowd of teenage boys hanging around my house.”
“Oh ma’am, that sounds pretty heavy.”
“Well, that’s not the worst part,” I continued. “Last week I gave it all up and globbed a chunk of Crisco on my hair to try to get it under control, and now I look like a complete moron. I can’t get it out of my hair. I’ve tried everything I can think of.”
Ms. Hair snickered. Just what I needed – an unfriendly hair hotline helper to shame me.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she apologized. “I was just reading the funniest email someone sent me.”
“It looks pretty bad, and people have been calling me Crisco Head and telling me I should get into the oil export business. But they are right, in some ways. I look like I could resolve the entire world oil crisis. I really need help.”
“Yeah, that sounds pretty serious. Maybe you could do the export thing, or you could get a wig.”
I couldn’t believe her suggestions. “Don’t you have any other ideas?” I asked with a sigh.
“Okay, there is one other thing. Go buy a box of cornmeal, and empty the whole box on your head. It will soak up most of the oil so you don’t look like a greaser. Then you can brush it out of your hair, after rubbing it into the roots and covering each strand. Your hair will look sleek and gorgeous.”
“Sounds good. I’m gonna go buy some cornmeal right now.” Click. I hung up without thanking her because I didn’t think she deserved it with her slimy attitude.
I zipped to the store in my convertible, hoping the wind would whip through my bird’s nest-like hair. But of course that was impossible. At the stoplight I reached into my bag and got out my lipstick to do a quick touch-up.
Climbing out of car, I noticed a giant grease stain on the headrest. I whipped out my compact mirror and realized I had applied a thick layer of flesh-colored cover up instead of my favorite lipstick. My lips were heavily globbed with the cover-up because I had decided to apply the lipstick extra thick to detract from my greasy hair.
I pulled out a Kleenex and wiped off the cover-up, then strutted into the baking section of the grocery store to grab some cornmeal. Once I paid for it and drove home, I went into the kitchen and poured the entire box on my head. That’s when the phone rang.
My husband called to let me know we would be having guests over for dinner. He said his boss had to fly to Australia unexpectedly to take care of some business, so the dinner party scheduled for next week was to take place that night at our house.
“That’s going to be a little tough,” I responded. Later we will definitely have a long chat about this.
“Oh, don’t let it stress you out, honey. You know Ben is from Oklahoma and loves a good Southern meal with lots of grease and cornmeal – something like beans and cornbread, with lots of bacon grease in the beans.” Ugh.