Hair menopause is exactly what it sounds like. It’s the day you wake up and no matter what you do; you are just having the worst hair day, which catapults you into a physical and mental spiral, practically altering your every action. This phenomenon doesn’t discriminate either. It affects the rich and famous, (male and/or female) as well as the general- public. You know who you are (even though you would rather not admit it).
The day usually entails full on mirror preening with the hopes of finding some kind of hair salvation (similar to checking the fridge, even though you know there’s nothing in there you want, you secretly hope something will magically appear when you open it for the umpteenth time). It’s a day that uses inordinate and exhaustive amounts of time, brushing, changing the bangs from side to side, putting it up, taking it down, spraying, etc… Store front windows are your enemy, the blow dryer mocks you when you pick it up as if to say…”seriously, girlfriend, why even bother?” Yup, this is the day I am having.
I know it’s vain, and that in the scheme of life, truly it is just a blip on my radar screen of life. I mean the world is ridiculously complicated these days with more bad news each passing day and here I am lamenting my follicle failures. Sure, it seems trite, but in a surreal way, I guess I look at it as a coping mechanism. Eventually, my hair will get the hang of things, the weather will calm down, and suffice to say, so will my hair. I know I have neglected it lately, and that not washing the chlorine out of it right away has only compounded my manic mane. It’s an easy problem to fix. One I can solve. One that doesn’t require a doctor’s care or cream, and will eventually resolve itself. It’s a problem that I ultimately have control over, unlike my son’s skin, or unrest in the world.