Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

I’m obsessed with this movie:

Have you seen it?  Go buy it or find it on Netflix or something.  Or invite me over to watch it with you because I want to watch it again and again.

It’s the story of black hair and the lengths (ha, pun) women go to to get long luscious Beyonce hair.  Relaxing, extensions, weaves, they’re all in there.  It was a total revelation and I loved how black girls spilled their hair secrets that I’ve been wondering about my whole life.  I watched it again last week with my fabulous and lovely hair dresser friend Melissa. She was as mystified as I was and I thought, as a hair dresser, she would be privy to this sort of information.  Apparently only black hair dressers know their secrets?  Why is that?

What is UP with Beyonce’s blowing in the wind hair?  How did she get it that long and silky looking using relaxer which I know just fries your hair?  Is everybody related to Native Americans?  How does Michele Obama get her hair to look perfect?  Who is wearing fake hair?  What is fake hair?  How much does this all cost?  And most importantly, HOW DO I GET IN ON IT??

Weave, weave.

A weave means a lot of different things.  These, I’d guess, are full pieces that are sewn onto the head after the real hair is french braided down to the scalp.  It’s a fascinating process and one that takes hours, has to be redone every 6 weeks, looks like it hurt, and costs a fortune.  I want to try it!  But it sounds itchy.

Braided, netted, extensions to be sewn on.  These are clipped to the hair.

Now everywhere I go I’m constantly evaluating black girl’s hair and analyzing how they got it to look so amazing.  It’s like art.  They can change their hair dramatically overnight. 

Jealous.

Wigs are definitely not part of white girl culture, unless the wearer is undergoing some sort of chemotherapy, in some theatrical show, or maybe a prostitute.  If you see a white girl wearing a wig A) you notice and B) you try to determine if she is sick.  I’ve always been tempted by wigs but never given them a go.

Pre-wig, wearing wig cap and looking kinda scary.

No time like the present!

If you’re going to buy a wig, I say, go big or go home. Japanese girls wear wigs all the time for cosplay -- costume play dressup -- as seen with Gwen Stefani’s xenophilic (but perhaps condescending) Harajuku girls phase.  I didn’t want a natural looking wig.  I wanted an anime-style wig.  Not quite Lady Gaga, but something fantastic.

 

Cosplay girl, Girls in cosplay in the Tokyo Harajuku neighborhood. Jude in the stroller.

After being jealous of this blogger for months, I found some fabulous wigs for sale from China and went for it.

My wig’s debut was a regular Saturday.  My kids and I were headed to the Little Farm in Berkeley and then to the mall for some shopping.  Just me and them, probably not seeing anyone I knew.  Perfect time to experiment with my new freaky wig.  I was feeling brave and ready for adventure.

My mom helped me put on my piece, though she objected and didn’t get why I was wearing a pink wig.  I didn’t really know either.  I just felt like it, okay?

We got it on, I turned to her and she adjusted it and said, “Looks perfect.  You look like a prostitute.  Don’t be surprised if you get propositioned.  Have a good day!”  Thanks mom!

 

At the Little Farm

At the Little Farm I quickly realized that being normal and with my kids totally validated me despite the weird hair.  I had a posse.  My kids didn’t think I was weird, they liked it!  It was like being a mermaid all day, or a Disney princess!  Stranger kids wandered up to me in interest.  I liked it!

Then we went to the mall.  We’re always a bit of a spectacle because I load all three kids onto one stroller.  This time I was pushing it wearing my weird wig.  Teenagers stopped me to talk about the wig.  Old people smiled at me.  It was strange being so conspicuous, but very amusing.  It made a boring and stressful walk through the mall a total adventure.

And then we ran into Carol!  Mimi’s preschool teacher (hi Carol!) was shopping with her mom and, as she passed me, was nudging her mom to look at the girl with the freaky hair.  Then when she recognized Mimi and Jude she said incredulously, “Lenore?!”  I loved that she knows me well enough to be simply amused.  It was so fun running into someone we knew and we laughed a lot.  It was the best part of the day.

Until that night.  It happened that I was meeting Some Guy, his boys, and our friends for dinner.  In Oakland.  At an Ethiopian restaurant where we are often the only white people there.  I don’t know why I felt more uncomfortable in that restaurant, and subsequently at Oak Street in Emeryville, than I had in less ethnically diverse areas.  For some reason a white girl wearing a wig in the majority white suburbs is different than a white girl wearing a wig around more black people.  People literally pointed and obviously nudged each other.

It was very interesting.  But then I thought to myself, why is it weird for me to wear a wig and not weird that the girl standing next to you is wearing fake hair?  What’s the difference?  Do you think her wig is less noticeable?  Cause I notice.  I know the fake hair secrets now. 

I’m slowly debuting my pink wig with my friends.  Today I wore it to the laundromat and the dentist.  It turned mundane activities into adventures, and all because of a mass of synthetic pink hair.

I’m totally buying more.

  

Laundromat photoshoot.

Not Normal

There were 1200 hits on this blog yesterday.

Sure, many of them are refreshes and returning visitors, but still.

Kind of a lot of people.

It got me thinking.

What is the most important thing I could say to you? What would be worth reading, worth your time?

I was born a little bit different -- when I was just a little kid my older sisters would say, "Come here, Normal" to which I'd scream, "I'm NOT NORMAL!!" I've always had authority problems and rebellious problems and rebel rouser problems. I got kicked out of church camp EVERY YEAR but my parents still made me go back. I was my parent's worst nightmare throughout my teen years, aside from my intensity about academics. I've never really been a good girl.

After high school I attempted to quit going to the LDS church. I had LDS friends and attended church but I had many problems bending my will to that of an organized religion. I believed that the LDS lifestyle was a good way to live but I wasn't trying very hard and I didn't really feel like I fit in: I had weird hair, I supported liberal politics, I hated Utah, I didn't go to BYU, I didn't think women should serve missions, I had no verbal filter, I was a feminist, I wore bikinis, I was fun.

A bit weird, not that cute, hanging out in my favorite section of Barnes & Noble. You're not a real blogger if you can't post gross pics of yourself.

Despite not fitting in I found myself an LDS husband who tolerated and celebrated my unMormony brand of Mormonism. We had a lot of good years together in which he would help me dye my weird hair, discuss the merits of attending non-Sunday church activities, and seek out less "normal" Mormons to befriend.

While I was definitely on the fringe of LDS culture, I didn't realize that I may have also been on the fringe of LDS practice. Sure, I went to church and attended the temple, did my callings and lived the LDS lifestyle. Nevertheless I felt stagnant in my belief.

And then came crisis.

During the crumbling of my marriage I found myself alone on Sundays while my ex was either traveling or doing theater. I found myself alone at night. I found myself alone in general.

On those Sundays I had a couple of kids who were not going to go to church that day unless I took them. And so I took them.

On those nights alone at 2 am there was no one to call and nothing to do but worry. The church says to seek for solace in the scriptures. And so I read them.

This was my hour of need and I had faith that the simple Sunday School answers would work: read the scriptures, say your prayers.

And it did work.

I was strengthened. We got through the worst of it. The rain came down and the floods came up and this house on the Rock stood firm.

I've been through the greatest trial of my life and it was a crucible for me. It taught me faith, humility and reliance on Christ.

I've always been a believer, but now my strong will is more flexible. I've been humbled.

I'm still a liberal voting, rebellious, kinda weird feminist woman with little filter, but I have been through hell and I can say without a shadow of a doubt that the Gospel taught in the LDS church is an absolute necessity.

I invite you to look into it. It's totally in this season.

And if it feels foreign or you think you're not going to fit in or it's not for you, come sit by me.

If I can do this so can you.

Go on, check it out.