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look ma, no hair
Saturday, 6 August 2011 10:10 pmIt transpires that one of the side effects of Warfarin is that it renders your hair unfit for human consumption. My hair has taken grave exception to my current regimen, marking its displeasure by becoming straw-like and brittle, and in addition prone to oiling up in about twelve hours flat after being washed. Since I've been patiently growing it out for over a year and it was down to my shoulderblades, that's a fair amount of hair to be lank and unspeakable; it's been driving me bats for weeks.
It was thus strangely cathartic to be able to wander into the hairdresser's on Thursday and wail "it all has to go!" when having, for once, a cast-iron reason for the decision rather than the usual vague and formless angsts which tend to prompt a sudden change of image. My lovely hairdresser has been rescuing me at intervals from said angsts, as well as tangles with henna, a resolute refusal to blowdry, assaults on my own fringe whenever it got into my eyes, and that one time I had a late-night fit of self-loathing and hacked it all off myself, for about eight years now, and he agreed that the hair itself was in worse condition than he's ever seen it. ("That's quite an adult decision, to simply get rid of it like this.")
The weird bit, though, wasn't the sudden acquisition of a jaw-length bob. That was rather fun. The weird bit was having the hairdresser, informed of the whole DVT/pulmonary embolism/10 days in hospital/Warfarin debacle, calmly cap it by telling me all about the parallel experience he's just had in hospital after a heart attack, at approximately the same time. We spent a happy hour playing hospital odious comparisons while straw-like hair drifted in sheaves to the ground. Apart from the odd fact of the synchronicity it does seem a bit unfair, though. He's one of those slightly stereotypical gay hairdressers who's an ex-dancer, and is slim and gym-toned and health-conscious. I can quite firmly blame my own experience at least partially on my own current complete lack of fitness, but he really shouldn't be having heart attacks. It holds out so little hope for the rest of us.
It was thus strangely cathartic to be able to wander into the hairdresser's on Thursday and wail "it all has to go!" when having, for once, a cast-iron reason for the decision rather than the usual vague and formless angsts which tend to prompt a sudden change of image. My lovely hairdresser has been rescuing me at intervals from said angsts, as well as tangles with henna, a resolute refusal to blowdry, assaults on my own fringe whenever it got into my eyes, and that one time I had a late-night fit of self-loathing and hacked it all off myself, for about eight years now, and he agreed that the hair itself was in worse condition than he's ever seen it. ("That's quite an adult decision, to simply get rid of it like this.")
The weird bit, though, wasn't the sudden acquisition of a jaw-length bob. That was rather fun. The weird bit was having the hairdresser, informed of the whole DVT/pulmonary embolism/10 days in hospital/Warfarin debacle, calmly cap it by telling me all about the parallel experience he's just had in hospital after a heart attack, at approximately the same time. We spent a happy hour playing hospital odious comparisons while straw-like hair drifted in sheaves to the ground. Apart from the odd fact of the synchronicity it does seem a bit unfair, though. He's one of those slightly stereotypical gay hairdressers who's an ex-dancer, and is slim and gym-toned and health-conscious. I can quite firmly blame my own experience at least partially on my own current complete lack of fitness, but he really shouldn't be having heart attacks. It holds out so little hope for the rest of us.
