There Was A Little Girl, Who Had A Little Curl...

My whole life, I have been insecure about my looks.  The only thing I’ve ever felt consistently good about is my hair.  In fact, I used to be fairly vain about my hair.  Used to be?  Okay, I still am.  When I was small (chronologically, vertically, whichever), before it started to fade like a prairie sunset, my hair colour was gorgeous.  Sounds egotistical, but I’m pretty sure it was true.  In fact, my mom tells me that people used to stop us on the street and comment on it.  (I’m sure this had nothing to do with the fact that Selkirk was so small, a “traffic jam” was anything more than two cars at an intersection.)  In the genetic lottery, I felt like my hair was the jackpot:  pretty colour, thick as bear fur (just as hot, too) and wavy.  Talk about a crowning glory. 

(Sidebar:  You’d think that with such a beautiful head of hair, my mom would have let me grow it out long, all the better to show it off.  Maybe put it in braids, or pretty barrettes or adorable pigtails.  I mean, I could have been Manitoba's answer to Anne of Green Gables.  Dear reader, you’d think that, but you’d be wrong.  (Not that I’m bitter.  Not at all.)  No, my mom decided to keep my hair cut nice and short.  See below.  Actually, it being the early 70’s, most of the boys I went to school with had longer hair than me.  Again, I digress.)

(Big Jo hangs with her crew, "The Squinty Boyz".  Yo, yo, yo.)

What I’m trying to say is that I’ve loved my hair my whole life.  That’s why I can’t figure out why it’s decided to turn on me now.  I always thought that redheads don’t go grey.  According to my mom, it was supposed to just fade to a lovely strawberry blonde, so I would eventually be the cool old lady with the nice lid.  But now it’s going…gulp…grey.  Can you believe it?  GRAY!!!!  My own mother has sold me a false bill of goods.  The fact that she can’t remember telling me the “redheads don’t go grey” thing doesn’t help.  And it’s not just my hair that’s got it in for me.  No, my whole body is going to hell in a hand basket.  For example:  my skin.  You’d think it would be clearer now that I’m near menopause, wouldn’t you?  Again, you’d be wrong.  At this point, I've got so much dead skin and red spots I could be an extra on “The Walking Dead”. 

Don’t even get me started about the weight gain.  After university, my “Freshman Ten” turned into the “Twentysomething Twenty” quicker than you can say “Kirstie Alley”.  As for baby weight?  Please.  I used “baby weight” as an excuse until my twins were six years old.  Okay…seven.  Add in an extended stretch (pardon the pun) of Domestic Goddess duties (better known as "24/7 Fridge Access"), and it’s like a scary movie you can’t turn off.  I guess I have to face it:  I’m not going to be the clear-skinned, slender, strawberry blonde granny.  Maybe the flaky, flabby, brown-haired one...

Actually, you know what??  This is IT.  I'm taking a stand.  
                                    

Dear Hair:  It's been fun, but I'm so not into you any more.  I'm sorry, but I'm done worrying about you.  Life is way too short to spend hunched in front of the bathroom mirror with a pair of tweezers.  I'm moving to Jamaica and buying a case of "Blondest Strawberry".  Or a burqa.  Whichever.  Yours truly, Jo