The public pools are open in Ottawa again, marking the start of the cheap swimming season. This is the time of year when I must face the facts, no matter how difficult.
I have handicapped hair.
It's quite fine and curls into a natural afro with the heat. Too much washing, product or chlorine turns into brittle hay. Which means I have to decide between my vanity and my enjoyment of the water (and the boys' enjoyment of the water). Vanity has lost just about every year but that doesn't mean I don't feel the sting.
As I was driving home, I saw a couple of young girls with long, beautiful, shining hair down to their waists. While I can usually dismiss most actresses and models, telling myself their locks are probably hair extensions or wigs, this was the real deal right in front of me. I'll admit to my moment of jealousy.
I would dearly love to have beautiful, strong, thick hair. It's one of the things my heroines almost always get: hair thick enough to make a braid as thick as their wrists. Mine twists nearly into invisibility. Between the fineness and the curl, any attempt at layers or styling just makes me look scraggly. And pulling it back into a ponytail or bun creates a little corona of wispy broken fragments.
This is a fairly petty complaint and I'm well aware of that. But little things make up life.
I think if I ever get an author photo done, I'll go all out and get the extensions or something to make it look the way I wish it did. Until then ...
I'll be wearing a lot of hats.