Is there a problem with that logic?
What is the definition of “self-acceptance?” Now, before you stop reading because you think this will be a boring, serious, preachy type of article, it is not. Well, hopefully not. Let’s just say that this story ends with some humorous photos. You got that to look forward to.
But as I was saying, the question of today: “What is self-acceptance?” Does self-acceptance mean that I accept myself, flaws and all and don’t change anything? Or is self-acceptance that I recognize my flaws, and I use every means possible to change them?
For me, self-acceptance is that I love myself as I am but I am totally about doing all I can to change my flaws. I really only have one flaw and that is my hair. Or wait, maybe my other flaw is an unrealistic vision of myself? Nah, not that.
So, as I was saying, I have one imperfection and that is my hair. I was born with thin, fine, stick-straight hair. Now before the rest of you say, “Stop your whining! People get cancer and their hair falls out,” and “We are in a global pandemic! Are you SO narcissistic that you are thinking about your hair when people are dying?” To that I say, cancer and a pandemic suck and yes, I am thinking about myself. I hate to be high maintenance, but as a woman, I really hoped to keep some hair on top of my head for my whole life. Is that too much to ask?
I have yearned for thick hair ever since I understood in 6th grade that I had permanent “bad hair days.” I did not have Marcia Brady hair. I did not have Farah Fawcett hair. Do you know what that did to a 6th grader who already struggled with the regular angst of teenage years? Well, it drives her to get perms. Yes, I spent at least a decade getting perms every three months. Let me tell you, it was not pretty.
As I got older, I stopped with the perms but still “tore my hair out” looking for solutions to my limp, lifeless hair. I started to highlight my hair and that worked until my early 50’s when menopause hit. Okay, all you men who just read “menopause” and want to stop reading, I understand. But there are some funny photos at the end. (Okay, guess you can just skip there. Go ahead. I understand. No, really, don’t worry about me. Do WHATEVER you want. Fine.)
As I was saying, menopause wreaked havoc on my hair. My thin, fine, stick straight hair has turned into a whisper of itself and let me tell you, that means, I need to do a comb over to avoid having a bald spot on the top of my head. This has been my nightmare for years and now it has arrived on my doorstep and I am fucking pissed!
I have tried EVERYTHING. I spent ungodly amounts of money on the best treatments and products for thin hair. I visited good salons that charge an ungodly amount of money to highlight my hair with the gentlest of products. I take expensive vitamins that make me gag and choke every time I swallow them which means I always make sure someone is around just in case I need to be Hemliched. One of my strengths is my ability to anxiety plan.
But despite all this time and financial investment, my hair has decided to leave me like leaves from the trees in autumn. How can my hair, that I have pampered, cherished, whispered sweet words of encouragement (“Grow, hair! You can do it!”) leave me now? Like a spurned lover, I am bitter. Oh, so bitter.
But then, I decided to let my hair down and practice self-acceptance. This is how my hair is now and nothing is going to change it. So, should I continue to waste money or should I fund my daughter’s college education? To that I say, “Which direction to the wig store?”
Occasionally giving up IS the right thing to do and I did not realize I would feel relieved to finally give up on my worry about “What am I going to do if my hair falls out?” That nightmare has happened and I have looked it in the face and said, “Oh, yea? Well, I am going to be rocking my wigs from now on so I don’t care.” And Just Like That (thanks Sex and the City), I bought some wigs.
And now your reward for reading this hare-brained article are some photos.
First, my actual hair but not my real dog:
Here is the first wig I tried on, but luckily the sales lady said, “No, you look like a mushroom cap.”
Then, someone helped me find a wonderful “topper” which is like a male toupee and I bought this:
I also found my absolute favorite that I am going to wear because blondes have more fun and after raising three kids and watching my hair fall out (and watching my skin wrinkle like my clean shirts that I leave crumpled in the basket instead of folding but that is a whine for another day), I deserve some blonde hair and some fun:
In my purchasing zeal, I grabbed one wig without trying it on because I guess I was feeling overly confident:
After I put it on, I realized it made me look like a drag queen which was not my goal.
But all is not lost. My husband decided that perhaps he will use that wig for Halloween:
Self-acceptance to me means understanding what works for me and what works so much better for my husband. You are rocking the wig, honey! Merry Christmas!
My daughter says that my blonde wig makes me look like a spy. So, watch out world. The first menopausal blonde spy is making her debut. She is kicking butt, taking names, and accepting what she has lost and what she has got left. And she is grateful.
“When your hair won’t listen to you and it’s a mess and you’re just like, ‘I grew you myself. I gave you life and this is how you repay me?’” — Anonymous