Tag Archive | Hair

To Hair With It

{if you ignore the title everything will be peachy and I won’t have to kill you}

I glance in the mirror, shudder at my disheveled appearance and pick up my phone. The screen lights up and glares at me dauntingly, flashing the numbers 8:12 and the words “Run CT, run” over and over again. Cursing, I pick up my hairbrush and try to pass it through the mess of knotty curls that amasses on my head when I forget about the existence of a blow dryer. The hairbrush gets stuck and makes a dull cracking noise when I pull it out of my hair. 8:13. Well, I guess that today I’ll just look like a lion that hasn’t gone to the hairdresser’s in a billion years. My parents should be so proud.
On the upside, I’m not late for school; although as I slip into my seat at 8:29 my friend looks at me sympathetically and pulls a brush out of her bag as a silent offering, while across the classroom, another friend looks at me, touches her hair and frowns. And so my day begins.

In case you hadn’t noticed (you wonderfully perspicacious human being) from the hairy tale above (get it? I made a pun! Shakespeare would be so proud), my hair is a sore point for me. I inherited my mom’s light golden color and my dad’s crazy Einstein wave, because of course having straight blonde gorgeously perfect hair like my mother’s that allows for the perfect bitch-hairflip wouldn’t have been fair to other girls anywhere on this colorful planet we earthlings call home. In this spirit my hair alternates between straight with a stringy wave and slightly poodlelike, depending on the days. I get a lot of questions asking what I’ve done to my hair on any particular day, most of which can be answered by a simple “I brushed it” or “I didn’t brush it”. A notable example came in June of last year when I was studying in the library. A dude from my class came in, stared at my head and said “did you go to the hairdresser’s? Your hair looks so… orderly.” No genius, that’s the power of a hairbrush. I’m not offended, really I’m not.

Although my blonde tends to look like yellow snow in the summer and muddy golden retriever fur in the winter, I have always been proud of the color(s). Why, you ask, would I be proud of having a melanine deficiency which has prompted numerous degrading stereotypes? (oh do please ask, otherwise my ensuing reasons are completely without a point) Well for one, it’s true, blondes have more fun, since we have a certain liberty to do what we want, no matter how silly, because when in doubt people will always use the blondeness as an excuse to justify a choice. Secondly, our hair completely changes color when it gets wet: from yellow to brown and back again. How cool is that? Thirdly, when it’s hot out, your dark hair attracts and sucks in heat while ours says “no sweat, I got this” and repels the rays. Finally, let dark haired girls be forever jealous: most of us fine-haired blondes don’t have to shave our legs. That’s right ladies, none of that excruciating wax business (well, I imagine that it’s excruciating, truth is I haven’t had to go through it. yet. (don’t want to jinx myself))  for me. Chew on that, suckers. So go ahead, tease me all you’d like… in the long run, I’m the winner.

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: I wrote this post back in November and completely forgot about it. I know I know, I’m blonde.

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Being a Lady

I take a huge bite out of the greasy sandwich I’m eating, instantly hiding it under the table, pretending that I don’t have food in the no-food school library. The librarian shoots me a glare that would make a bloodsucking mountain goat recoil in fear, but at this point all I can think about is eating before my afternoon classes start, so I shoot him my sweetest smile, completely forgetting that my mouth is full of tomato and cheese. His eyes widen in horror as I quickly gather my books and dump the rest of my lunch in the trash. As I pass the front desk I stub my toe in the doorframe and utter a string of swear words as he chuckles and looks away so I don’t see him laughing at me. Yeah, as if. Nice try dude.

Being the perfect lady has never been a particular goal of mine, but as I progress through life and have people say things like “No spitting contests. They’re so unladylike.”, it does force me to think of what being a lady is all about. So, without further ado, here is The Mostly Confused Teenager’s guide to being a lady.

#1: Be Respectful of Others
Some would call this first rule “be kind”, however I tweaked it purposely because in my humble opinion life would be a complete drag if you couldn’t tease people just a little bit. I guess that you could just implement the rule that teasing and ribbing (are those the same things?) are fine up until the point where you’re causing pain through your words. Now now, I can already hear your cries of protest: “CT, laughing at someone is always wrong!” Well, yes; but my wise sixteen year old self knows that some relationships are based pretty much purely on insults and fake-loathing and that those friendships are worth everything in the world. So in a short, babble-free resume: teasing = OK, one-way insulting = well… guess. Bad (duh.)

#2: Make Your Own Choices
You all know the meek “we can do whatever you want” type. I’m not talking about normal polite people who can easily go with the flow, but rather people like my mother. I love my mom to bits and would without a doubt jump off a cliff to save her (although I’m not sure in which circumstances this would ever take place), but she annoys me to no end by having no particular opinion about most anything. Ladies, if you want to do something, as long as it doesn’t involve insulting nuns in their presence, go ahead! Being a lady means being a person, and being a person means standing up for yourself and for what you believe in.

#3: Respect Yourself
This suggestion ties in with the previous one. A lot of people would say that being a lady entails having perfect hair and makeup at all times, having the posture of a telephone poll and dressing like a 1950’s housewife. I think that that’s cow poop. The basics are hair that doesn’t have capybaras living in it, a face that doesn’t look like a grizzly bear gave it two black eyes and no bikinis (or equivalents) in business meetings. Other than that, do whatever the hell you want, within reason! Respect yourself and, generally, others will respect you.

In short (yeah, ironic I know), being a lady means being yourself. There are no 100,000 commandments to obey to the letter; there are only a few guidelines to follow. Swear, get sweaty, eat pizza with your hands and get it all over your face… And most of all, have fun. Otherwise, what’s the point of being anything at all?

Live long and prosper \V/
Yours sincerely,
The Mostly Confused Teenager

PS: On the 3rd of August 2014, TMCT turned one. Happy Birthday to the best little blog this girl could wish to run!

The Importance of Appearance

Good people of the Internet, I know you not so I don’t feel bad about admitting this: I am a what could be considered as a slob. Not in the sense that I live in a dumpster filled with old cookie wrappers and Mets stat sheets (although that has happened on occasion) but in my appearance. What I mean is that if I don’t really try, I don’t look presentable to society. And although I pretend that I don’t really care, I hate to admit it, but I do.

Let me paint you a picture. With my words, because let’s face it; I pretty much suck at actual painting. I’m the quintessential ‘looks OK albeit a bit weird at school and acts like a relatively normal person but as soon as she gets home slips into her cosy bathrobe and padded slippers to curl up and watch the highlights of the game with a chocolate bar.’ When I’m home, I don’t care about how I look anymore, there’s no one to judge me, except for my parents, my brother, the dog and the cat. Actually you’d be surprised how judgemental my cat can be.

I interact everyday with people who look perfect, without a hair out of place (well, take my dad out of the mix, he looks like Einstein) and my hair looks like a rat’s nest. Even though I have a hairbrush at the ready permanently in my bag, my problem is far from solved. I cut it to just over my shoulders in an attempt to restrain it… and it laughed in my face. Like, not literally, because I would freak out (where the hell would the mouth be?) but you understand. It didn’t work.

I started putting makeup on in 9th grade because I hoped that it would distract the eye from how red and flustered I got when my crush spoke to me. At first it worked, although only because I put waaay too much on and I looked like a Barbie doll. I toned it down and realized that it actually really helped my overall appearance.  In a year, I haven’t learned much; I still stick my mascara in my eye every morning and have abandoned the idea of ever wearing eyeliner because it makes me look like a demented raccoon, but I have learned that a little blush, lipgloss and mascara can do wonders for your self-esteem.

No matter how much I wish I didn’t care, I still find it important to look, well, acceptable in front of other people. Even though the saying says don’t judge a book by its cover, people do. In the street, people judge you with their eyes. At school, people judge you by your voice. It’s tough, but it’s life. And as someone who looks naturally like a… um… Plain Jane, I find reality hard to swallow.

But all in all, I am who I am, and even if I don’t look like the perfect poster girl, I’m alright. Acceptance is important to me, and although I will always tweek my hair and mess with my concealer (have you ever tried making drawings with it during class? Try it, it’s fun! Or, you know, funner than strictly decreasing functions) if people can’t accept me, then I can’t accept them, and frankly, they’re not worth it.

Live long and prosper \V/

Yours sincerely,

The Mostly Confused Teenager.

PS: sorry for the depressed teen rant tonight, tomorrow will be something a little lighter 😉