Vanity Wars: Extension HeavenAlso read: "Vanity Wars: Shoe Issues By “Faith” “I don’t do glamour hair,” she snipped. I don’t want glamour hair, I thought. Just a little more hair; some replacement hair. All I want is what I once had. “What will it look like?” I asked. “Here’s my book,” she said, handing me a spiral portfolio full of famous faces and famous locks. There they were: Sarah Jessica and Uma. My lord, I wanted to be like them, and soon enough I could be, spending thousands of dollars—thousands!—on something I didn’t need. “How long will it last?” “Two or three months. It’s virgin hair from India that is sent to Italy where it is processed like cashmere,” she explained, sort of, sending me into a flurry of spendthrift panic and confusion over how, exactly, long shiny black hair gets turned into a cashmere sweater. “Now let’s get tones right,” she said, bringing sample strands over to my head. “Is this your color?” she asked, referring to my own head. Well, not technically, no, but I have a long-standing relationship with this shade. “...because you cannot color it once it is in.” I pictured fuzzy thick hair, dark roots, a depleted bank account, and a furious spouse. I needed air, but before I got any, I committed to the procedure and a daylong date with my new best friend in New York City. The entire plane ride home I kept wondering how I had gotten myself into this predicament, and answering myself truthfully: Afro-envy. Yes, that was it. A few years back, an already attractive African-American woman in a short bob left the office on a Friday afternoon and returned on Monday with long, swept-up braids. It was a jaw-dropping transformation. I was mesmerized. “You can’t do this,” she explained. “Why not?” I whined. “It’s braided in. Look, it barely worked on Bo Derek. Just imagine.” I did, and then wished I hadn’t. My wispy hair would support about four flyaway cornrows, tops. Instead of Queen of the Nile exotic, I would look like a four-year-old’s worn-out Barbie. I accepted this, but I could not completely let go of the concept. So I began finding little hair pieces at the corner drugstore, then slightly longer inserts, until one day I went as far as a ponytail from a mall kiosk. “I am going to pull this through a baseball cap and swish it around like the old days. My husband will love it,” I told my co-worker. “How’d it go?” she asked the next morning. “He looked at me like I was wearing a hat of tarantulas,” I confessed. “I can’t believe it. I am going to be stuck with a politician’s-wife pageboy for the rest of my life.” I am not sure how I found my way to Bumble & Bumble in New York’s old meatpacking district, but there I was, staring at a glue gun and yardstick-long strands of hair suitable for Donatella Versace. “Is this going to damage my hair?” I asked, with the same doomed questioning skills I use with my kids. I should have asked, “How much will this destroy?” or something else that suggested that you could never put one over on me. “Not at all,” she responded. Well, sure, and with that settled, she began to affix strands of human cashmere to my own limp flax at strategic points on my head. At her first break, I found a mirror. Hair cascaded from the nape of my neck down my backside. I was speechless. I was a living, breathing, country-western album cover, or an elderly Lindsay Lohan. Part of me wanted to stay that way. The sane part of me kept quiet. My stylist came back from her phone call announcing that a client had just gotten a part on a television series. “I cut his hair just for the audition. A mohawk. Well, not a mohawk-mohawk. A modified one. The kind of mohawk you would have if you were gay and in prison for a while. Rebellious, yet fashion savvy,” she explained. I was beginning to suspect that I was in the presence of greatness. She glued for the next three hours, then pulled out a pair a scissors as if to undo everything she had just accomplished. “May I?” she asked. My mind raced. What if I want glamour hair after all? If I wear it up, maybe my husband won’t notice. Can I have it long for a week and then come back? “Of course,” I answered. I closed my eyes, picturing a modified mohawk. When I opened my eyes again, I’d gone from Tipper Gore to Kate Hudson. I floated all the way back to the airport. I didn’t start to panic until I touched my scalp. It felt like I’d fallen asleep in a bowl of Rice Krispies. If I was going to keep this on the QT, I would have to learn to duck and spin. I did. It has been almost four months now and nothing seems to be frizzing up or breaking away, and it does too handle color. My kids tell me how nice my hair looks, in their typical “How could that be?” manner. I am not sure how I am going to be able to feed my new habit. They sell do-it-yourself kits, but a more realistic goal is to take it easy on my head and stretch this out for another eight months. When I start shedding like a golden retriever, I will know it is time to make a reservation. Hopefully by then I will have enough rolled coins for at least the tip. “Faith” always wanted to be Crystal Gayle. Back to the Table of Contents Back to Top