Or…”How Getting Hair Extensions Made Me Insecure”
Those of you who know me probably already know about my obsession with almost every show on Bravo and the Kardashian clan. That basically means that I enjoy a few things: heavily made up women, day drinking, and a good weave.
Please don’t misunderstand- never have I ever idolized or looked up to any member of the Kardashian family (except maybe Bruce Jenner). But if you can’t watch one episode without remarking on the unbe-weave-able hair of those Armenian sisters, then we just can’t be friends.
After graduating college I moved back home, which, roughly translated, means “I am a loser”. In some situations, however, it also means “I don’t pay rent”. Me likey.
That being the case, I found myself sitting on a pretty sweet little nest egg with a part-time hosting job. My 22nd birthday was approaching, and I had my eyes on the prize: hair extensions.
I sat in the front of the mirror at the salon watching my short little bob transform into luscious mermaid’s ringlets. My head was pretty heavy with tape but whatever, I was fabulous. I trotted around town whipping my fake hair back and forth.
Then a strange thing started to happen…no one cared. I wasn’t getting any props on my new look. As days went by I started to get paranoid; why didn’t people like my weave?? Could they see the tracks??? Could they tell it was fake???? Did people think I was an out of work stripper?????????????????
I wouldn’t exactly call myself wash and go, but I’m a pretty low maintenance girl. If I can throw my hair up into any type of bun without brushing it and still be seen in public, I’m a happy camper. I thought long hair made this lifestyle more attainable. HAIL NAW. Long hair is a huge pain in the ass- especially if it’s someone else’s hair taped to your head. My 15 minute routine for the day was now pushing 45. If I didn’t meticulously blow-dry, silk spray, and brush with something that looked like it was meant for a horse show, I’d look like I just stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
Slowly little pieces of my weave started falling out during yoga, errands, and even sex. Do you know how awkward it is to pick a piece of hair up off the ground and continue about life like everything is normal? I felt highly unattractive and not like someone you wanted to keep up with.
A few weeks later I got drunk off some home-made peach sangria and pulled out every piece of fake hair. I sealed them up in a freezer bag and returned them to my hairdresser for half of what I’d paid.
My weave looked so sad, dried up in that zip lock baggy, probably wondering why I was abandoning it. But I took no pity on the faux ‘do, because we just weren’t meant to be.
Some girls are Kardashians: they’re beautiful, accessorized, and always have perfect eyeliner.
Some of us a little more like Jennifer Lawerence- girls who spill Doritos on a perfect white dress five minutes after putting it on and eat shit going up four stairs.
I’ll never be the Victoria’s Secret model with the long flowing hair, and let’s face it- no matter how much white wine I drink at noon, I’ll never be a Beverly Hills Housewife.
But I am me. This short, tangled mess is mine- and I’m proud of it.