December 11, 2011

"Pantene makes it happen" holy miracle at a time

 My hair. It brings me such grief. If I brush it, people confuse me with Hermione Granger. If I don't, I get mats.

Like, literally. (The last time I wore my hair down FOR ONE DAY, I had to spend half an hour brushing out three 1"-diametered mats. I'm worse than Spawn of Satan. Except for the fact I don't lick my hair and throw it up all over my house five times a day.)

So when I wear my hair down, it's kind of a big deal.

Wearing my hair down made perfect sense the last time we spent Christmas at my parents' house in Wisconsin. Christmas with my family means there are at least three wannabe photographers creeping around, all up in your pores-magnified-1000-times-digitally business. Seriously. When we leave any family vacation or holiday get-together, the photo swap takes about three hours and involves hundreds and hundreds of shots. And then everyone spends the next hour making fun of everyone else in each photo because most of my family is this horrible mix of unphotogenic and competitive and ruthlessly sardonic. It is so terrifically funny. And it makes my sister Kendra cry at least once a year.

So I had this great idea. Heck yeah, I'd show 'em. I'd wear my hair down and be dazzling (and clench my jaw to give my chin waddle some shape) and no one would have any ammo with which to hit me. And I could do all the slinging.

So I took a shower and got my hair all Pantene gorgeous, got dressed all the way (no clothes mullets while opening presents this year, baby), and did my makeup. And then this weird thing happened...

My hair...just never really...dried?

It was so weird. At around hour two, I quietly pointed it out to my mom. By hour four, my fashionista sister Jane, who views me as a hair loser anyways, remarked on it. And by the time supper rolled around, I was floored and started making fun of myself. And then I started to wonder...

Could it be some weird Christmas miracle? A physical sign I was eternally-baptized?

There it was. I was singled out. Chosen. Marked by holy hair water and set apart.

And then my mom asked me what shower I had used. When I answered, and when she started laughing and didn't stop, I growled and stomped upstairs to see what possibly could be so funny. Picking up the bottles of shampoo and conditioner I had used, this is what I see:

Still not seeing the problem? I don't blame you.
Yeah, that's right. In size 3 font under "relaxed & natural."
I mean, I should have guessed. My house isn't exactly homogenous, ethnic-wise. We have braiding parties, for goodness sake, where all the big sisters help my mom braid Angel and Jillian's heads. (I guess the beautiful coppery-bronze color of the bottle could have been an indication? I was probably just excited to stray from Pantene's sallow, defunct-of-all-melatonin white bottle color.)

Ah, the Christmas I explored my non-existent African American roots. Pun fully intended, once again.

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