I’ve talked briefly about the bun thing but it might not have been obvious just how obsessed I am with my hair. It’s not a narcissistic obsession – it’s closer to a resentment…bordering on hatred.
My hair has been the bane of my existence. It has usually been the thing that defines me. For the first 16 years of my life people couldn’t/wouldn’t see past my hair to learn about the girl beneath.
I began life with no hair and it stayed that way for the best part of a year…growing only a thin wisp on my noggin, a fact which earned me the nickname “Kojak” from my older brothers.
Then it started to grow…
(These last 2 pics were taken the day after my hair had been in 13 plaits. Kinks and waves draw up the length so that it only just goes past my bum but the true length was much longer.)
I finally got it cut when I was 16 years old. It was barely 1 inch from my knees at that point. My sister-in-law, a hairdresser at that time, expertly cut a 1.5ft blondish curl leaving my hair still halfway down my back and mostly brown.
Since then, I’ve gone through a range of colours and styles – never happy with any.
Here’s a pick and mix of the last 15 years…
So why am I so obsessed with my hair?
Like I said, it seemed to define me. It had a detrimental effect on my social standing with my peers at school. It was the object of ridicule which, of course, means that so was I. My parents and some of my teachers tried to comfort me with assurances that the hurtful comments were made out of jealousy but I wasn’t convinced by that for a second.
When I was in senior school I used to hang out with a group of people at the “B-Block” stairs were we would sit to each morning tea and lunch. One day I was standing beside the stairs when, unbeknownst to me, one of my “friends” tied my hair to the banister. Because it was so long I couldn’t feel this happening until I began to walk away to get to class…only to be yanked back by the fettered plait. If these were my “friends” who did this you can imagine what people who weren’t my friends might be capable of.
I’ve struggled with my hair all my life. It doesn’t do what I want it to. I’m sick and tired of being beholden to it. It makes me late for work and social events. By the end of the day it usually looks (and feels) like a dead animal sitting on my head.
And if all of that wasn’t enough torture enough, the most widely accepted stereotype of my profession includes a reference to a hairstyle. Not just any hairstyle either. Oh no, it refers to a hairstyle that used to cause me real physical pain. Yep, you guessed it…THE BUN.
As I have mentioned elsewhere in this blog, I used to wear my hair in a bun. A bun so big that the volume of hair contained therein was equivalent in size to the head it was attached to! I knew then that the buck bun stopped there.
But I’ve had enough! No more will I be held hostage by this abomination! No longer will I stand idly by while it changes its colour without my acceptance or assistance (blonde to brown to grey). I will wear it how I wish. I will proudly sport a bun if I so choose. I will not tolerate any “hairdache” as a consequence of my bun-wearing. I reclaim the bun as a proud library symbol. I wear glasses because I am short-sighted. I wear cardigans when I am cold. I wear my hair in a bun because it’s the only way I can beat it into submission.
Here are my most recent shots of my baney-mane…the Fi-fro and its Nemesis…
So I declare, in the name of BUN PRIDE, Monday is BUNDAY!!!
Final note: I took a short break from writing this post to watch Spicks and Specks only to hear Barbara Morrison sing in the “Substitute” round from a book called…”KOJAK”!!!