Read something quite interesting in Elle over the weekend:
'People who are excessively concerned with their hair,' says this writer in a feature about how our hair makes us happy, 'often have a deep-rooted anxiety about their attractiveness or appearance.'
Well.
There are moments in life when you read or hear something and it just makes sense. Something goes ping and you think, 'Hey, that's, like, me.'
This was one of those moments. I've been hair-obsessed (and I'm not even using the word lightly) pretty much since I was old enough to wash, rinse, repeat. My most prized possession for years has been my GHD, which I saved up for in unprecedented penny-pinching teenage diligence. The thought that I'll be minus my hair dryer this December holiday in Botswana has me quite, quite distressed. And, but of course, my hairdresser is one of my favourite people in Cape Town (She's lovely, she really is).
So this little line of text which I happened upon while waiting to board my Mango flight to Jo'burg sent a jolt of recognition right through me. It's me ... down to the ground. Other people add 'bad hair day' to their list of things going wrong on any particular day. For me, a bad hair day is a bad day. It's over. I may as well not get out of bed. No good can come of a day in which my hair is not shiny, sleek and straight. It's superficial. It's shallow. It's silly.
It's also, according to this article, self-esteem. Low self-esteem.
Hey at least I have an excuse now.
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