It’s mane story time! Is it okay to talk about my hair…again? I promise this one has an interesting end!
It started from getting aggravated at my hairdresser for charging extra for a hairstyle she could easily have made for half the price she’d collect on a regular day. It was big box twists for half my mane. I made her first weave 3 rows from the bottom perimeter of the hair at the nape of my neck before proceeding to braiding the rest of the hair.
I was in a hurry, I didn’t want to go through the next day with a wig, it was past 7pm, and she was in the middle of a client’s hair. All of that came into thoughts when I got her scurrying along to attend to me.
It wasn’t until the next day I realized how untidy and badly done it appeared. It wasn’t until my boss asked me what happened that I realized how untidy and badly done the mane appeared, and then I felt betrayed. I felt it so strongly that I resolved to change hairdressers immediately.
Rash decision, yes, but asides feeling cheated by her, from where I stood, her flaws had overfilled the cup and was starting to run over.
Fast forward to a week later when I got bored with the style so I had to uninstall the braids, call for a friend to make some two strand twists I could wear henceforth underneath some wigs. I was finally relieved of my job (long story) so I had ample time to play around with wigs.
I figured, conveniently, my hair dresser could keep her expertise away from the mane, thank you very much.
While in the process of taking my bath yesterday morning, I had an epiphany of a fresh hair start. Ofcourse I dismissed it as it made no sense. Infact, I thought the soap lather had gotten deep through my ears to the insides of my brain.
I mean, I’ve spent so much lately trying to revamp my hairline and hair growth, why would I want to cut off my hair?
I left the bathroom a little uneasy but also a bit relieved the right side of head could counter with matching arguments why the sudden devil’s idea was the worst possible option at this point in time of my life.
I’m not convinced how I can pull off a low cut look. Plus my efforts at my hair care game were yielding good results gradually.
What I could think about, after towel drying my body and then having my right thumb against the nozzle of the ACV applicator bottle as I was set to spray on the cotton pad balanced on my left finger tips, was how I could end the year with daring hairstyles since I would chop it all off come next year.
While I was putting on my underwear it occurred to me how I could color my hair with the remainder of the spicy red hair dye I had kept after employing it for a second application to my hair during my NYSC year (which was like 2years ago).
Then struggling to fit the ankles of my jean pant through my feet, then past my ankles, I realized I could even scrape the side of my head (Say what??). What I’ve been longing to do, but the need to appear responsible stayed trumping the desire to experiment with incredible styles.
All the while I was dressing up, it didn’t occur to me that I WAS DRESSING UP. I was at the act perfunctorily, having been used to dressing up after bathing to head for work, or some activity usually slated for early mornings. That’s been my life everyday the past 15months.
Typical me, I grabbed it as a sign. I saw my dressing up as a ticket to leave the house. To leave the house to the shopping plaza. The shopping plaza at Eko market (Lagos Island). Eko market to buy a couple more wigs. More wigs to emphasize the comfort and lack of distraught in my plans to reduce my 9-1/2 inch length of hair I’ve learnt to maintain, to a mere 0 inch.
The thoughts came swirling through my mind in bullet points. Point. Go to Zee, friend, to help apply the hair dye all over the hair generously. Point. Weeks later, head over to Iggy, bro’s barber, to use his clippers on one side of your hair, and then behind.
Point. Last week of December, let mother snip off the tresses with a scissors like she happily performed the first time. Point. First week of January, permit Iggy to scrape off all sighted strands on the scalp and leave his salon with a David Beckham’s hairdo (maybe I’m mixing up the footballer. The one with flat blonde).
Point. Re-dye the hair so you’re on red lowcut for a week or more. Point. When tired, finally scrape off the hair completely and let a fresh new responsible hair see the light of day.
Banging the gate behind me, already en route the market, I sent a WhatsApp text to my trusted hair buddy.
“Mehn Zee, this time around, I’m really going to cut my hair o. Like I’ve actually made up my mind and all.”
With the various transitions I have planned, won’t everyone think I’m going mad because I “lost my job”. I can imagine my mum being assured of my new reckless phase and planning how to book a deliverance session for me.