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in issue six
Scintillations
Real Friendship
Letters To My Younger Self
My Friends And Me
Real Dream Interpretation
More Real Dreams
Surviving Friendship
Grateful For That Kiss
Supportive Friend
Moody Girl
Making Friends
  With My Inner Critic
Low Speed Chase 
  To Power
Periodic Friend
Life Based Upon A Word
Follically-Challenged 
  Friendships

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Dana Ehrlich

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future issues
Issue Seven: Trust
Issue Eight: Power

previous issues
Issue One: Change
Issue Two: Balance
Issue Three: Spring
Issue Four: Goddess
Issue Five: Bravery

I’ve never had very many friends. Now that’s not to say I haven’t had friends… just not very many at any one time. While this doesn’t really bother me, it does puzzle me. Why don’t I have more friends?

I’m bright, intelligent, funny, and pretty decent looking. Okay, so I’m no raving beauty, but that should actually work in my favor. After all, my decent looks means that I’m non-threatening to other females. That makes me the perfect companion for both the beautiful and the ugly.

I’m also loyal. Dog loyal, in fact. Slap a collar on me and call me Fido. Just like a dog stands by its owner no matter what, I stick by my friends through thick days and thin days, romance and broken hearts, happiness and hangovers. And just try to taint my vision of a friend by spreading dirty, gossipy rumors and see where that gets ya. Nowhere, baby, nowhere!

So what could the problem be? My mom once told me that it was my “aloofness.” I said, “Huh?” She explained that I was shy, but the average person wouldn’t pick up on that. She went on to say that my demeanor was such that it hid the shyness, and turned it into aloofness. “Huh?” Well, maybe you understand it, and can explain it to me over coffee sometime.

Anyway, even though I don’t quite understand this aloofness theory, I can totally buy into the shyness bit. I am shy. I become frozen in social situations, and scared to talk. Yet, I hear the phrase “Oh you’re not shy,” from people all around me. So I tend to think that shyness isn’t the reason I don’t have many friends. In fact, I know what it is, and it has nothing to do with personality, and everything to do with hair.

“Hair?” you ask. Yes, hair. I have unruly, curly, frizzy, unsocial hair. My hair is like a prissy poodle: it hates the rain, hates pillows, hates hats, and hates humidity. It doesn’t respond well to sleepovers, camping, or walks on the beach. My hair demands special care before being seen in public. And hair with a personality like that just doesn’t make friendship as accessible as it could be.

Some of the most pleasurable and simple activities enjoyed by a group of friends, like a hike in the woods, can be met with resistance by my hair. It really hates me to get out and do anything. If I go on the hike, it throws a tantrum while I’m out on the trail, and turns into a huge frizzy mess of unruly curls. If I decide to go camping, it steals my friends’ appetites during breakfast with its scary monster-sized party hat cone-headed appearance. And Lord forbid that I try to do anything in the rain. Even an umbrella won’t protect it from soaking up the wetness in the air, and making me unpresentable to the public.

You see, even though I may still look somewhat human-like with a mass of wild hair, the damage to my psyche has already been done. I am shamed by my hair, and take on the persona of “Bad Hair Day Girl.” I feel unattractive and unworthy of attention. My normally bubbly personality is muted by bad hair psychology. I become my hair… I become unwilling to take part in life, just like my hair is unwilling to partake of obedience.

I’m tired of my social life being ruled by my hair. So, I’ve come up with a foolproof plan: I’m growing my hair long. Well, not long, because my natural hair length is just above my shoulders, but baby, I’m letting my hair grow. See, I figure that if I grow my hair long enough to be placed in a ponytail, then I’ll win the hair game. I won’t be afraid of the dampness, or hats. And sleepovers will be a piece of cake with longer hair. I won’t have to worry about scary coneheadedness; all I’ll have to do is tame my hair into a ponytail, and go down to breakfast.

So far, my plan is working. While my hair hasn’t reached shoulder level yet, it’s long enough to be tamed by a headband on particularly bad days. And I no longer have to spend precious time away from friends because I’m stuck in the bathroom blow-drying. Nope, all I have to do is throw on some hair gel, scrunch up the curls, and run. My hair is losing its control over me, and that feels good.

I’ve already noticed a difference in my social life. The other day, my hair threatened to misbehave before a special event. I took one look at it, sprayed it with some no-frizz stuff, threw on a headband, and went out to meet a friend in San Francisco for dinner, on a rainy night, no less. Nope, my hair isn’t going to keep me from making friends anymore. So give me a call and invite me to go camping. I’ll go this time. Really I will.

My new well-behaved hair will never get in the way of our friendship again. Honest. And you can believe me, because these puppy-dog eyes never lie.

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