There is an Alice Munro story in which she describes a woman as having let everything go except for her hair, which remained an elaborate pile of teased, curled, coloured and sprayed blonde locks, years after the rest of her had gone to the dogs. She may have been a brunette. I'll let you know if I ever find that story again.
When I was around twelve or thirteen, my mother took me with her to the hairdressers for my first perm. It was, I think, an attempt to bond in girly activity. She was not a vain woman, but she maintained her hair pretty rigorously with regular perms and sets. I, on the other hand, was the sort of girl who needed to be told to brush hair and wash face before setting off for school. Somewhere in our family archive is the photo my father took of us on our return from the salon- and if I ever find that, you'll never hear about it. I imagine my mother had thought I would be delighted by the change (improvement!) in my appearance- more grown-up, more womanly, etc. Instead, I was just acutely uncomfortable with my new hair, as though an alien had taken up residence on my head and was waving at passersby. I whined about it enough over the next few hours that she eventually smacked me over the head, shutting me up, but not doing half enough damage to that indestructible hairdo, as I recall. Well deserved, I should emphasise, and the end of grooming for some months.
One of the above might be a close representation of myself, but I'm not letting on which.
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