No hairdresser, no glory

I want to sucker-punch the person (probably a man) who originated the phrase, "A woman's hair is her glory." Why this violent reaction to a Victorian quote that could be safely classified as quaint? Because while nobody says it anymore, it's perfectly obvious that most people still believe women should have glorious hair. And in order to have glorious hair, a woman must find a trustworthy hairdresser--a nearly impossible task if you're unwilling to spend more for a haircut than for a new pair of shoes.

If you were looking at the Mallia family album right now, you would notice that my hair changes a lot over the course of twenty or so years. You would also notice that none of the many hairstyles I adopted were ever glorious, although certain individuals may classify the mullet I had in kindergarten and again (accidentally) in eighth grade as such. There was no glory in my overprocessed spiral perm during the early nineties, or in the stringy faux-raven pseudo-goth 'do in the mid-nineties, or in the purple pixie cut from my early college days. And there's certainly no glory in the overgrown bob I've settled for now.

And yet, I continue to quest for glorious hair. Meaning, I quest for a trustworthy hairdresser, even though finding one seems more impossible than ever. Recently, my hair barely recovered from two disasterous visits to Phillip Pelusi. I went to a decent hairdresser in Oakland for a while, but her dislike of everything and everyone (which she verbalized in a continuous rant as she angrily chopped off my hair), although amusing at times, made me paranoid, because I knew she disliked me too. Not because there was anything to dislike about me in particular--I did nothing but nod in agreement during her rants--but because it was just her way.

I've thought about giving up on glorious hair and just letting it grow until I look like a hippie. But I dislike hippies, and I'm already accused of being one often enough due to the vegetarianism, pacifism, and ecological concern. For the sake of my own dignity, I need to do whatever I can to distance myself from these people, so in addition to disdaining communes and having an alergic fit every time I catch a whiff of patchouli, I will continue to have my hair "styled" by incompetent hairdressers who promise glory, but fail to free my hair from its decidedly unglorious genetic bonds.