My dad grew up on a dairy farm in northern Indiana. The area that his family hails from gets pretty freaking cold four months out of the year. I'm talking highs of 30 and lows of 10, with the snowfall levels about 50% more than the national average. Anyway, Dad and Grandpa have always regaled us kids with crazy stories about when they were growing up (remind me to tell you the one about blowing up the gopher hill with dynamite; oh, and the drunken parrot named Pete). Dad has also used these stories to remind us of how lucky we are compared to the hardships he grew up with ("When I was twelve I had to get up at the crack of dawn and break up the ice in the cow troughs with an ax! Now you stop complaining about the car not being warmed up enough to turn the heater on and SUCK IT UP!!").
One of the many stories he told was about a truck he or Grandpa had when he was a teenager that was quite particular about who drove it when and where. One thing this truck absolutely hated was being washed. An occasional rain storm was fine, but if you dared even one soapy drop on its fender, it wouldn't run for days.
I have hair like that.
Once when I was thirteen or so my mom tried to give me a perm. It stayed curly for a whole day and washed out the next. A couple of years later I tried out the big curl over your forehead 'do. It never worked. I either got this horn-ish monstrosity or a hair spray stuck blowout over my brow. The only thing my hair will do is be washed and be brushed. No fancy spritzers here, woman! How dare you!
Anyway, the other day I went and got my haircut. The hairdresser put a little mousse in my hair, blow dried it, and bam! I had, like, a hairdo. I thought cool! Now I can do my hair and show my husband that yes, there is a little bit of femininity left in his wife. So I went to Dollar General and bought a blow dryer, a round brush and some mousse. The next day, I took a shower and recreated the steps I saw the hairdresser perform. Do you know what I got?
Super duper volume. Like, the bottom of my hair sat a full three inches away from my back. Too much mousse? I don't know. But I was tired of fumbling with the blow dryer and trying to brush/curl the ends of my hair at the same time, because everything goes backwards in a mirror and I'd burned myself too many times for it to be funny anymore.
Stupid truck hair.
One of the many stories he told was about a truck he or Grandpa had when he was a teenager that was quite particular about who drove it when and where. One thing this truck absolutely hated was being washed. An occasional rain storm was fine, but if you dared even one soapy drop on its fender, it wouldn't run for days.
I have hair like that.
Once when I was thirteen or so my mom tried to give me a perm. It stayed curly for a whole day and washed out the next. A couple of years later I tried out the big curl over your forehead 'do. It never worked. I either got this horn-ish monstrosity or a hair spray stuck blowout over my brow. The only thing my hair will do is be washed and be brushed. No fancy spritzers here, woman! How dare you!
Anyway, the other day I went and got my haircut. The hairdresser put a little mousse in my hair, blow dried it, and bam! I had, like, a hairdo. I thought cool! Now I can do my hair and show my husband that yes, there is a little bit of femininity left in his wife. So I went to Dollar General and bought a blow dryer, a round brush and some mousse. The next day, I took a shower and recreated the steps I saw the hairdresser perform. Do you know what I got?
Super duper volume. Like, the bottom of my hair sat a full three inches away from my back. Too much mousse? I don't know. But I was tired of fumbling with the blow dryer and trying to brush/curl the ends of my hair at the same time, because everything goes backwards in a mirror and I'd burned myself too many times for it to be funny anymore.
Stupid truck hair.
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