Hairspray

Once upon a time, about ten months ago, I would spend hours in the mirror teasing, spritzing, sculpting and more spraying with my industrial sized bottle of hair cement.

Over the last few months, like most people during COVID-19, the need to wear anything other than leggings became normal, quickly followed by the need for perfect hair. Where was I going after all? Curbside?

Recently, I decided lipstick in the house could be totally acceptable and a decision had been made to start wearing real clothing like skirts and shirts with buttons. Nice stockings with my going to town shoes seemed appropriate as well. I bedazzled with jewelry and dusted off earrings and painfully poked them on.

“Wow, mom. You look good.”

“What are you saying? I didn’t look good before?”

“Yes. I mean no. You just got dressed, that’s all.”

“Hmm.”

If I were to put the effort in with the big battle of panty hoses, I should attempt the battle of the brush and go all the way to complete my not-going-anywhere look. I would style my hair.

My hair went into shock. It had become accustomed to just lying against my big head. It fought me all the way. I teased; it drooped back down. I plugged in the iron and curled like a champ, yet my hair kept with the protest. I brought out the big guns, hot rollers. I let those babies cook my hair for an hour. In no time flat, it all started to come back to me. It’s like riding a bicycle. I didn’t really forget how to sculpt my hair. I had become a bit dull in my skill, I just needed a few attempts to warm up my craft.

Tease, spray. Tease, spray. Coif, spray. Tip upside down and spray, spray, scrunch and spray. Flip back up real fast with a head snap and spray some more. Coif, coif, sculpt and voila!

I looked almost smashing.

By day three my hair conceded and decided it was fun to be flipped and stretched with a large shellacking in the end. It felt wonderful to have to dip again going through a bedroom door so as not to topple my do. The crispy sound as my family patted that tower of mane in disbelief that after an hour of hot yoga it still stood tall. My midnight drool dried to my pillow and fused a tight bond from the hairspray that had worn off while tossing and turning my dreams away.

Day eight found me in a state of panic. While working my stylist magic, I reached for the bottle of spray  and gasped when I saw there was a scant few drops on the bottom. I did a double gasp because that day was curbside and my order had been placed and filled. Under no circumstances would the little that remained last two whole weeks.

I knew how to make homemade hairspray. I did it before when I was hard core about every little thing I ate or put on my skin. But honestly? Vodka is better in tomato juice with a pickle.

My hair for the next two weeks will be limp and less dramatic. Pretty much the way my life has been over the last year. Limp and no drama. Except for the eight days of bitchin looking hair. Those eight days gave me hope and lifted my spirits. If I felt I looked good…..then, perhaps, life could be good too. I struggle with trying to find a new sense of normal.  While I can’t control what is going on in the world today, I can control my world here on the farm and perhaps look good while doing it.