I was raised at the intersection of Social Justice and Liberation Theology. (If you don’t know what that means, don’t worry. I’m still trying to figure it out.) My mother, an ex-nun, shunned manicures as toxic and petty and liked her hairstyle like she liked her shoes: Sensible. Needless to say, this stunted my ability to be effortlessly glamorous. My mother’s idea of glamour is a floral skirt set from Penny’s and Navajo earrings from New Mexico. Things that come easily for other women –flawless make-up, rigorous gym routines and well groomed body hair — are about as natural for me as playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship with an amputated leg during a tropical storm. So, I have to work a little harder.
I get by…barely.
I had to start dying my hair about a year ago. I’ve never done highlights or anything like that. Too expensive and too complicated. I was raised to keep things simple and avoid too much flair. Why worry about how you look when you could be worrying about the homeless. So, more often than not I resemble a vagrant who’s recovering from some sort of garden-variety addiction. (I am genetically predisposed to have bags under my eyes.) But over the past year, a significant amount of grey hairs have begun nesting in my thick and coarse black hair. Shriveled, wiry little bastards who have decided to frame my face.
So, I’ve had to start dying my hair.
As a result, I’m stepping it up. Slowly but surely, I’m incorporating a beauty routine into my life. I wear make-up. I whiten my teeth, I wax my brows, I try to remember to get semi-regular bikini maintenance, I got a gym membership, I get manicures before shows, I wear deodorant (no joke, used to go without) and I’m dying my hair. My mom has started dying her hair, too. It’s like we’re both coming of age together. I like to think we’re both all set with inner beauty. Paid that shit forward. Time to act like a couple of ladies…
-Cathleen
