Sunday Newscape Magazine

My hair and I have long had a love/hate relationship. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very happy to have it and, considering my 94-year-old grandfather still sports a full head of hair, I’m not worried about it going away any time soon. But still, I can’t help but be pissed at it. It’s thick. It’s coarse. It feels like a steel Brillo pad. And it never lies down flat. Never.

The earliest battle I can remember was in 2nd grade when I was having what would be the first of many, many bad hair days. Naturally (because God has a tremendous sense of humor), it was Picture Day. My hair, clearly knowing how important this day was, decided it would have a little fun by impersonating a Troll doll. I begged my dad to let me stay home. Didn’t work. So I went to school, crazy ‘fro and all, and incurred the wrath of my classmates. Trust me, it wasn’t good.

Years of similar experiences (usually involving birthday parties, family weddings, or worst of all, blind dates) were eventually explained to me by a hair stylist who said simply, “you have pig hair.”

Over the past couple of years, I’ve tried to tame my outer pig with buzz cuts. But a few months ago, I decided to be brave and let my hair grow. No longer was I going to be victimized by my so-called pig hair! I was going to fight back, consequences be damned! And surprisingly, I was actually starting to feel pretty good about where my hair was going. Until today. That’s when a co-worker said, “Hey Rob, 1986 called. It wants it’s hairstyle back.”

Suddenly, it’s Picture Day all over again.

(c) Rob Bloom all rights reserved  http://robbloom.com