Yes, it’s amazing but I really need to obsess about my own hair. Obviously, there’s going to be very little obsessing about husband Frank’s hair when he never experiences imminent need to visit a barber.

Right now, I tell him he should be grateful for the gene pool that rendered him as follicle challenged. Incredibly, his mother once told me that she had never shaved her legs. I could probably make hay after dealing with mine.

Like about 50 per cent of the population, I suffer severe ambivalence about my hair. It has always felt like it’s my own personal cross to bear — over and over!

In our Ft. McMurray days, we often sat behind a woman named Eileen McClean at the Saturday 5 p.m. Mass. One evening after church, Frank turned to me and inquired, “Couldn’t you just brush your hair back like Eileen does?”

Not only was I incensed with Frank, I was even more angry that he couldn’t recognize that even in a double month of Sundays that my hair would never achieve what Eileen’s did so effortlessly.

And, it was always thus. Some of my earliest and most terror-filled memories are of my mother fighting with my hair. As my mother was a woman whose purse always matched her shoes, proper appearances meant everything.

My mother was abjectly fond of bobby pins and had mastered the art of the wet pin curl on my head. When she got tired of all the work, she would resort to the “Tonette” home permanent on a regular basis. Today, the product would likely be assigned to the hazardous product shelves and would feature a prominent skull and crossbones on the package. Aah, how do you ever forget the aroma of ammonia?

In the primary grades, my hair was kept longer and every morning before school my mother would cinch my hair back into a taut, tidy ponytail. A ponytail so tight I didn’t need to squint to squint. This was done with an elastic which had probably began service on a bunch of celery.

By lunchtime every day, I had fixed my mother’s handiwork. I found I could accomplish what I needed to do with a newly sharpened point on my pencil. In those days, children went home for dinner and by the time I returned my mother would have cinched the ponytail to its morning glory. Ouch!

Fast forward to the sadomasochistic years of high school when all the girls were crazy for back-combed, poufy styles. Naturally, I bought the obligatory brush rollers and extra pink plastic picks. Every night meant rolling up my freshly shampooed hair followed by eight hours of self-inflicted pain sleeping on those instruments of torture. Vanity, thy name was Anne!

My hair adventures have been manifold and some have been pretty memorable such as the time when I went to the Five and Dime (Kresge’s) and bought powdered henna. My mother chased me around the house trying to snip off all the neon pink parts before my father arrived home to notice.

After university, there was a Red Cross summer camp in Jamaica, where a group of primary-aged little girls were extremely determined and eager to plait my hair. They simply couldn’t understand why my hair could not be braided. They had no problems with their own hair.

Perhaps my straight, slippery hair was a first for them. That same summer I spent a lot of time maneuvering my part around the top of my head. Never before had this Canuck had to deal with a sunburned hair parting along with matching well-crisped ears.

Sometime before we returned to Canada from Europe, my BFF from those high school brush roller days and nights made the decision to let her hair return to its natural colour. So, when we arrived home, I was inspired by her honesty and by her suggestion that there’s a time when the face should match the hair! While I had never delved into the rigours of permanent hair dye, I had not been above using salon beige burst for about ten years — a type of gradual wash-out colour.

Still meeting the “old” new me was a shock and I instantly regretted my decision, although I did stick with it. When I would whine to Frank about the horror of it all, there was not one glimmer of empathy or sympathy. His comment: “Well, you at least have hair!” I think I’ve been married too long.

Yet, this spring for the first time ever in his life Frank can claim benefits for being bald. There’s no complaining about needing a COVID haircut when your wife can wield the clippers. No. 2 setting in case you’re wondering. The only thing Frank needs right now is a hat for all his Zoom get togethers. This is to prevent light bouncing off his head while the camera concentrates on highlighting his extra chins.

This all takes me to last week’s nerve-wracking haircut — the ole digital calendar suggests that the last time I crossed the threshold of a hair salon was Feb. 27/2020.

I think you could regard this recent visit as another one of those great lifetime hair reveals; another big hair adventure. Truthfully, I’m unable to judge the suitability or attractiveness of the new hairdo.

Fortunately, it comes at a time in my life when I’ve largely attained mature woman invisibility. I may not enjoy it — but it’s a grim reality!

But — some of you may catch that there’s a “celebrity” in my new hair creation!

-Anne Letain