locks of loath(ing)
How 100 wefts of Indian hair solidified my right to be admired
I absolutely love a bob. Short bob, long bob (lob as the cool kids say) graduated bob…Call it what you will, but they are universal siren songs of chicness and laissez-faire. They rebuke the standard with subtle ease and extraordinary elegance. While of course not my mother’s initial design when she lopped most of my tangly hair as a young lass, the pencil straight, razor sharp ends that so delicately fell just below my chin became my signature. My look, my small distinction amongst a sea of mermaids my age. Who needed a pony-tail at gymnastics when a top-spout would do? The 90’s scrunchie did not discriminate. And it matched my leo, so if you know, well…you know.
This taste for la difference perpetuated through most of my adulthood of course, until the day the love my life fell to bended knee on a beach in the southwest of France and asked the question we all pretend not to be waiting for. Besides the obvious thoughts that so quickly descend on your sparkly champagne bubble - the dress, location, and who do I actually like enough to be a bridesmaid - the other swarm of musings inevitably moves to beauty, and no finer a time to invoke the need for every soin, peeling, treatment or otherwise, than the grand walk down your very own personal runway. Nothing says ‘beauty knows no price!’ like a bride preparing for the most fabulous photoshoot / day / IG upload of her life.
This endless meditation naturally brings one to hair, where I found myself at a crossroads of identity. The dream involved a stunning chignon and a veil to rival Maria von Trapp, but the reality was far from inspiring. My locks were left tired and lifeless (and definitely not long) after 4 years of rough Parisian water, and no matter my efforts, I could never seem to reach the cult French girl hair status. (It’s a basically a myth but let’s all keep dreaming, oui?) My hunt for options and speed-growing supplements only left me stressed with a higher Amex bill, and only then a rather chic girlfriend shocked me with her suggestion of hair extensions.
While of course I knew of their existence, I felt my waspy heritage halted any inquiry into living such a lie. Wouldn’t they fall out? How natural could they possibly look? And let us not forget that I have literally never had long hair in my entire life. Was I going to attempt this feat of character by becoming just another mane in all the others? Absolutely, obviously. I couldn’t wait.
After much (and I mean much) inquiry into the essential black market of hair extensions in Paris (because no parisienne would ever admit to participating in such a blasphemous act… or any beauty treatments at all, because they ‘are just like this’) I finally stumbled upon a magician in the 8ème with flawless reviews and a price just acceptable enough for a trial run long before my wedding. Remy and I met, we swiped through my obscene amount of Pinterest inspiration and we set to work. The entire process took roughly 3 tedious hours of attaching keratin bonds of gorgeous Indian hair on to every possible spot on my head. To say I was having minor panic would be an understatement. I found myself longing for the wash-n-go days of yesteryear (or yesterday), but upon completion I have to be honest : the result was absolutely, undeniably fabulous. I was feeling more glam, more svelte, dare I say more sexy? I loathed myself for thinking I wasn’t these things already only 4 hours before. But the true test was revealed on the metro ride home, where seemingly every man in the Ile-de-France region, suddenly, as if by magic - decided to affirm my very magnetic and admirable existence.
It would be to note that I have never considered myself especially, daringly beautiful. Unique perhaps but the attention I ever garnered from the opposite sex was one of intrigue and fascination. Do not get me wrong, my fiancé clearly has exquisite taste and thus so appropriately regards me in a manner befitting to such admiration, but “beautiful” in the instamodel sense I have never identified with. Maybe more detox tea was needed? I digress.
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and those beholding had never so beheld me in my life, what could possibly augment the difference in sex appeal other than my newly extended coif ?
“Men are suckers for long hair” my aforementioned chic friend bemoaned.
“They eat it up, like a weird cat-nip that universally decides you’re beautiful”.
Was this true?? Was every boyfriend of my past just holding out, wishing I were soon to be Repunzel? And what did this say about my own confidence, the very spark that ignites our most inspired selves, rebuking all other definitions of standard and acceptable?
While painfully unsurprising that our cultural shift has veered toward that of a cyborgian-beauty ideals, the attention I was garnering was perching on bazaar and wildly unfounded. No makeup, no problem - my ‘crowning achievement’ seemed to mask all my sins physical or otherwise. Was it simply a sexual reference, appeasing those fantasies that aim to placate the desires of men, or was I finally feeling the very real discomfort of swimming downstream with every other fish in the sea. I’ve long admired the flowing locks of my girlfriends, but perhaps the upriver free-stroke of a graduated-bob suited me much more.
As I’d felt like I’d only now seen past the masculine veil, there was a growing skepticism about perpetuating this stereotype for my wedding. Was this really me or was I searching to be someone else entirely? It’s not worth denying that my husband-to-be was ecstatic with the result… and the veils I’d tried on truly needed some heft to be held and dragged down the cathedral aisle without worry. But as the tangles arrived and the shampoo bottles emptied at top speed, I started to have this itching feeling (figuratively and literally)…. I hated the hair and could not wait to escape it.
The grass is always greener, and shorter and chicer, of course, but as the world shuttered its doors to avoid a sweeping pandemic from the East, I was left with 100 locks to babysit and not a single opportunity to even show them off. My work-from-home hobbies included detangling, brushing, washing and coiffing. I was exhausted and longed to feel my pillow sans the keratin frontier between us….Or at least my fiancé’s hands in my hair when I needing a little comfort. But these little luxuries were long gone with the wind when caring for such a companion you cannot escape. - one you, yourself, wholeheartedly welcomed into your life in the name of bridal beauty.
In the end, after countless trips down the youtube black hole of diy I decided to relinquish my anti-conventional torch and let the girlish whims of my hair be more friend than foe, for however long was necessary. The reality was, eventually - some day - we would exit our homes and continue into a new normal of errands, yoga classes, dates and catching the metro, and I would certainly have the luxury of returning to my sharply bob’d ends the moment I could see my Coiffuse in New York. (If you’re ever in need, Tiffani Patchett is the one). Until then however, I would relish in the costume of a younger, more care free maiden in my mirror and take heart to the fact that yes, men really are that easily fooled.