My hair is capable of extraordinary things.
Unfortunately, it prefers to demonstrate them when I have absolutely nowhere to go.
On an ordinary morning, with no appointments and no possibility of meeting another human being, it behaves beautifully.
Volume.
Movement.
Perfectly positioned strands that look as though somebody has spent considerable time arranging them.
Nobody has.
This is its natural talent.
The moment an important evening appears on the calendar, everything changes.
One side develops an independent political position.
The other becomes completely flat.
A section at the back decides that gravity is merely a suggestion.
No product can negotiate peace.
This is particularly offensive because I know what my hair can do.
I saw it on Tuesday while taking rubbish outside.
It was magnificent.
By Saturday evening, after preparation, products and unreasonable levels of optimism, it has become emotionally unavailable.
People often recommend planning.
Wash it the day before.
Do not wash it the day before.
Dry it naturally.
Never dry it naturally.
Use less product.
Use more product.
Sleep with it tied.
Absolutely never sleep with it tied.
Hair advice has the same problem as weather forecasting: everybody sounds confident until the event begins.
Then there is humidity.
Humidity does not care about preparation.
It arrives without invitation, examines the work and makes immediate structural changes.
Straight hair remembers it once had ambitions to curl.
Curly hair expands its territory.
Every carefully arranged strand joins a rebellion.
The most dangerous sentence at this point is:
“I’ll just fix this small section.”
There is no small section.
One adjustment leads to another.
Soon, the entire hairstyle has been reopened for negotiation and you are twenty minutes late holding three brushes and questioning decisions that began hours ago.
Eventually, you stop.
Not because the hair is correct.
Because the reservation will be cancelled.
And then something strange happens.
Later in the evening, after wind, movement and complete surrender, the hair begins to look good.
Not perfect.
Better.
More alive.
As though it needed everyone to stop interfering before it could remember its profession.
Naturally, by then nobody is taking photographs.
The light has changed.
The evening is almost over.
And the hairstyle you wanted three hours earlier has finally arrived without explanation.
My hair does not dislike important occasions.
It simply refuses to perform under pressure.
Apparently, it is an artist.
Silvia
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