Good Hair Days

Make everything better

Hello, Fabulous Reader,

Some days we dig into current events or newsy news or some obtuse topic my insatiable curiosity demands I explore, and other days, we talk about hair. Thusly this Substack is called “Margot Potter: Snapshots from the Life of a Woman of Substance.” Hair has been a considerable challenge for my entire life. The hair sprouting forth from my head, much like the person who lies beneath, defies explanation, order, or rational behavior. My hair is chaos, ever evolving to new levels of heretofore unimagined defiance. Just when I think I’ve managed to get it wrangled, it takes a jump to the left and then a step to the right. Ungovernable? Moo Deng has nothing on my hair. I once wrote an essay about my hair with photos that ended up being the end papers in my book Fifty and Other F-Words. (Side note: I wanted to call my book Fuck it, I’m Fifty or F*ck it, I’m Fifty-but the publisher (an arm of Barnes and Noble) felt that an f-word too far. Between the compromised title, the weird broken candle on the cover, and their complete lack of marketing support, it went fuck all from there.)

Fuck it, I’m 61 now.

But I digress. I was here to opine the struggles of a woman with a mass of chaotic hair. A metaphor, for something, for sure. Most recently, I had a hairstylist, in the midst of some sort of emotional breakdown, assault my mane and my person with such unexpected aggression that I am still recovering from the PTSD. I am not being hyperbolic, I was shaking uncontrollably the entire time and spent the following two days curled up under a fuzzy blanket on the couch crying. Had I not had a head full of bleach, I would have left immediately, but she knew she had me captive and she took full advantage of the moment. My new male hairdresser is amenable, and so far I haven’t sat in my car sobbing after visiting him. However, he’s more expensive and that means I have to bid my beloved pink hair adieu for the moment. So today, with hope springing eternal as hope does, I saddled up the horses and left the farm in hopes of my hair finally recovering from the aforementioned previous assault.

I’m pleased to report that every single thing about today’s hair experience was perfection! I kept waiting for the thing to go wrong, yet no thing went wrong. It all went right! What strange magic is this? The roots lifted, the last remnants of pink skedaddled, the gloss toner made a lovely creamy platinum, the cut is delightful, my hair feels like silk, and, best of all, there was no shaking or crying or wincing involved!

Chaos managed, thanks to Conner at Ulta Beauty in Kennett Square.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming.

Cheers, Madge