I learned back in the 80s, when "perfect hair" meant mucking around for two hours or more with hot oil treatments, mousse, gel, blowdryers, curling irons, and hairspray, that I was not cut out to be a girly-girl. It's a lot of work, it's really boring to stand there and do it; it's time you could be spending taking a walk or going for a swim; and at the end of it all, what have you got? You ask a guy if he likes your hair, and he says what now?

Come on, all together. I know you know this one:

"It looks fine."

"Fine" is underwhelming payoff for two hours of work if you ask me.

Sure, your girlfriends might notice, but so what? And you never know when one of them is going to be contrary and get a little too honest with you about it:

"Do you think this looks all right--what I did with my hair?"

"Um. Um, it's okay . . . ."

"No, you hate it, I can tell. What's wrong with it? Is it the bangs?"

"No no no, I don't hate it. It's just . . . I dunno, I think I kind of liked it better the way you did it yesterday."

"You mean with the scrunchie and the--"

"Did I say yesterday? I meant last Tuesday."

Good luck recreating whatever the heck it was you did with your hair last Tuesday. And again: For what?

Although if you take great pains with your appearance you'll notice. You might even get a kick out of it, a little mood-booster from knowing you look extra good. Which is great, except for one thing: Tomorrow, you'll just have to get up and do it all over again.

I'm not a girly-girl or a ladies-lady. But I think I might, just might, qualify as this kind of woman:

With the rare exception of those women who are goddess perfect and still manage to handle a career, home and family, I think most women fall into the same category as I do. We are simply the ones who do. We do the best we can to make sure the people we love are well taken care of, regardless of what that entails.

Whether we are married or otherwise have men in our lives, if the water heater goes out, the hamster escapes and gets trapped in a wall or some other day ruining calamity strikes, we are the kind of women who just deal with it rather than have a huge melt-down and call you guys in sobbing hysterics.

Not, you know, that there's anything wrong with sobbing hysterics, um, on occasion. I mean, that's what my friends tell me. I never have that problem, myself.

Posted by Ilyka at June 28, 2005 07:38 AM in hell is other people