Isn’t it just a whole different day when you’re hair looks good? Honestly, I can’t believe how much better I look when those things on my head are working. But getting them to behave properly can often be a near impossibility. There are factors that come into play. Some are in our control and some are not. Take the weather. (ugh, today is totally disgusting, so yeah, take it SOMEWHERE ELSE.) There are days in the winter when my hair is glued to my head, despite a good blow dry, a good curling iron, a good amount of hair spray. It’s flat as a gosh darn pancake, and nothing short of being hit by lightning will perk up my mane. Conversely, in the summer, when it’s so humid, you want to air condition your clothing, my hair is in “boing” mode. I do my thing, blow it dry carefully, and it just frizzes out, looks likeI have fried it up in a pan, and have recently been in a fight with a pack of small children. And again, there is little I can do to tame its hellishness. I rely on barrettes and hair elastics and cuter clothing to distract from my electrocuted look.

Then there are those times when you wake up and your bangs grew over night and suddenly they’re either in your eyes, causing you to bump into walls, because you cannot see, or if you have the side swept version, they just lay there like a lazy teenager on a Saturday morning, giving you the overall look of exhaustion. I have actually considered going to hair school, in order to learn to cut my bangs, because they have needed so much attention during different parts of my life. And they can make or break your face, I tell you. Good fringe can make you look younger, cuter and friendlier. in fact, when I used to have real bangs, I used to say to my stylist, Ron, who I have only been seeing for like 24 years, “I need my bangs cut. Make ’em friendly.”

And a word about Ron. Well, more than a word, he deserves a freaking page. He has put up with me and my hair for more than two decades! This guy should get some kind of statue in the Boston Common erected for patience and kindness. Ron is a veteran in my hair wars. We have gone from permed (I still have a class action suit against all of those so called “friends” who let me live out this 80’s nightmare in public.) to layered, to blunt. We have had light bangs, and choppy bangs and side swept bangs. We started with hair au natural and have gone from semi-permanent dye every eight weeks to cover a few grays, to permanent dye to prevent me from being mistaken for Barbara Bush. We have dabbled in highlights, and a plethora of hair products. We have also, along the way, discussed gardening and weight, and our plans to have plastic surgery together in Brazil, our dogs, our recipes, our love lives, our computers and the state of affairs in the big world. Ron is one of the smartest, funniest and most talented people I know. A pharmacist by training, this guy is good at so many things, it’s hard to like him. He has owned several salons, is a talented gardener, a top chef, a landlord, a kick-ass words with friends player, and could work in the apple store behind the Genius Bar. Above all else, while yes, he keeps me in brown hair, he is my friend. And I thank him a million times over for being that.

Anyway, when my hair looks good, I look younger, happier, less tired, more engaged, more excited, friendlier, cuter, and smarter. Yes, a bunch of dead protein coming out the top of my head can do all that. Some of my hair secrets: I don’t wash it everyday. And while I would rather die in a fiery crash when I was a teenager, rather than to go a day not washing my hair, as an adult, it looks better on the second day (truth be told, sometimes I even go the third day without shampoo). I love Frederick Fekkai hairspray. It is the lifeblood of a nice do. I once gave myself a mayonnaise conditioning treatment in high school, after reading about it in like Glamour, and couldn’t get out the Hellman’s for a week. I am not exaggerating. It conditioned alright. Enamored with Farrah Fawcett’s “Wings over America” look sophomore year, I gave in and had my bangs cut, from their center part to look like Farrah’s winged back locks. I hated it and wore barrettes (color matched to my clothing) until they grew out. I had waist length hair for most of my younger life. My mom liked my hair back, and away from my face. When I was like seven, my sister once cut my very long hair to my chin while my parents were out and was grounded forever for doing it. (What a younger sibling won’t do for the attention of her older sister!) I once cut my hair into a shoulder length bob and was working in an ad agency and one of the creative directors told me I looked like Barbara Streisand (I wanted to kill myself and him). When I was in fourth grade, in love with banana curls, I used to sleep in rags (this was quite a sight). And lastly, I would like to say that my sister used to do two things to her hair that were hysterical and I still cannot believe. She had curly hair and she wanted straight hair (and what is it, by the way, that we always want the hair we weren’t born with anyway). Here you go–she used to iron it on the ironing board. Yes, not kidding, not some drug induced psychosis on my part–that’s what she did. The other thing she did to get her straight sleek look was to wrap it in orange juice cans. Don’t even ask.

Anyway, I had a spectacular hair day recently and I considered having a photo shoot done. Not really (but kind of). I’m grateful to have all sorts of hair care products and a professional hair dryer and curling iron to tame my tresses, and quite honestly, to have hair at all. On days when it all works out, it’s a minor miracle worth a MAJOR celebration (however today, with this weather, there isn’t going to be any party over here).