I have been unhappy with my hair this week.
No false modesty here, I have great hair. When it’s good, it’s really good. I’ve been propositioned to sell it*. It’s thick, and strong. It has body and volume. But when it’s bad, it’s bad.
My hair was unruly on Monday. Not Fantasy-Novel-Princess-Surveys-Windy-Plains-As-Her-Curls-Fly-About unruly. No. Frizzy, fly-away, dry, crazy-lady unruly. I was too sick and busy to care enough to do anything about it.
Then a monk told me my hair was gorgeous. “Just absolutely gorgeous,” he said again. A monk. A classmate of mine, upon entering the classroom and before saying hello, commented on how awesome my hair looks. I look at it and it still seems frizzy and dry.
So, ok. Everyone? Let’s just stop being mean to ourselves. Because clearly, as a species, we have no fucking clue what other people find attractive.
Read all the beauty magazines you want, it’s still a total crap shoot. Evidenced by the backlash against the most recent episode of HBO’s Girls, “One Man’s Trash” (which may well deserve its own blog post, if I can convince myself that the world needs another internet opinion on Girls), we love to pretend that there is some universal attractiveness rubric, and then BOOM, beautiful chiseled Patrick Wilson goes and fucks Lena Dunham, whose thighs touch, and everything we thought we knew was wrong and the internet explodes. Jesus christ.
I know it sounds hokey to tell you to remember, the next time you’re hating on something about your appearance, that someone out there thinks it looks awesome, but literally, that is what happens. Somebody thinks my frizzy hair looks gorgeous. Somebody wants to bang that fat ass.