I have Midwestern hair. It’s long and wavy and eminently traditional…one could say it’s pioneer hair but with cleaner roots. It’s not dyed or highlighted or permed or straightened. I do not tease it, nor gel it, nor spray it nor blow dry it. My hair has never been promised a more glamorous life as a bleach blonde. It’s never been too short, or too long. It has never made me late to either dinner or to breakfast.
My hair does not vociferously complain that it spends most of its time in a ponytail, twist, or braid. It waits patiently for the moments when I leave it free from elastic prisons to fall across my shoulders. It only occasionally throws a tantrum known as a bad hair day, which generally results as a protest against humidity. My hair and I declared detente long ago — I do not expect great feats of it, nor it of me.
You could, perhaps, say that my hair has good Midwestern values. I try not to push it too far, nor ask too much…since it didn’t ask to be transported to the big city of San Francisco. It resists being paraded around, asked to masquerade as something more complex and sophisticated than its true nature. It grounds me back to my roots, as it were…here in the Midwest with the other simple-haired people.
My hair does not care to blend in, or to try too hard.