I hate to wash my hair!

Okay so...first attempt at satire/humor and written after a few sleepless nights and watching old comedy re-runs. Be kind. And if you can relate - even a little...welcome!

I'm 50 and I don’t wash my hair.

Okay let me rephrase that. I'm 50 and hate to wash my hair. I know seems weird but it's true. Out of all the things I view as chores, hair washing is one of them. I do wash my hair because let's face it, I don’t live on Mars and have a job where I face people at least a few times a day. So not washing my hair would spawn gossip that even I would find amusing. Gossip about myself? Oye. Lame.

I always said if I ever won the lottery, and I mean serious money, not just enough to pay off bills or a small mortgage. But major money. The kind where you buy a huge house and have a live-in…something. A chef, masseuse, Gardner, housekeeper…whatever.

For me? That would be a full-time live-in hairdresser! That’s right, my own personal hairdresser! Before you mock, let me try to explain my less than sane reasoning. You know that feeling when you go to the salon, and you have someone else do the dirty work. Yup, the real dirty work. The wash. The cut. The style. You watch in awe and then…you walk out feeling and looking like a million bucks. It's the best feeling in the world. You look at your reflection and inwardly…or outwardly are like, "yup, lookin' good." A smile and a wink at yourself and away you go to face the rest of the world looking like a movie star. Well…at least you think so.

And then a few days or a week later – hey no judgement here, whenever, you wash your hair and its like…blah. I watched the stylist apply the product and style the exact hair I have on my head and I swear I did the same thing but why do I look like I could be a stand-in for one of the Muppets? Or some kind of leftover 90's grunge band reject. After an invisible face-palm I try again. And fail. And then…I just leave it. Ah it's okay but I don’t feel like a million bucks. Maybe like 25…and change. 25 Cents? Sometimes.

Since I do have to wash my hair in between salon visits, I found a style that is somewhat respectable for someone who works in cubicle land, and that I don’t have to find a way to reach for my shaver and go all G.I. Jane on myself just to face the real world. I'd have to explain to my family why I joined the army or am mocking cancer patients. Again…face palm. Not invisible this time. They would look at me like I grew a third eye – and then called the medical professionals to arrange a padded room.

How can I survive my own personal lameness? Because let's face it – whining like a child about doing adult things when you’re an adult – is well…lame. Where's my scotch! Scotch helps. Or writing about it. Nah booze is better!

Oh I need help. Le sigh.

I look at the calendar, two more sleeps. Nothing and I mean NOTHING! will keep me from my appointment on the weekend. I don’t care if the end of the world comes; there is a chair with my name on it and I've paid for that space – at least for the hour (whether I use it all or not), I will be there! And if the world does end, at least I'll look great!

Until then, I pull on my well used baseball cap, answer the door to accept the take-out, close the door and look at the cat with a less than amused expression.

Yes I am done talking to myself. TV on and…let's eat!

Wait…is that a grey hair I spot? NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

PS: No bottles of shampoo have been hurt during the writing of this piece. (I ran out-oye)