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Abstract

online course in taxidermy, or sewing little outfits for your kids’ stuffed toys or watching YouTube videos of people speaking in tongues.</p><p id="ab06"><i>Now how would I know about that?</i></p><p id="526b">We’re all dealing with the pandemic in our own way and mine happens to involve my crowning glory. Ergo, I spritz and I spray and I dab and then I go for a walk in the bright sunshine, or sweat my ass off on our deck.</p><p id="a73b">And after the schmutz in my hair has dried, I run to the mirror like a little kid and scrutinize what in my considered opinion appear to be tiny glimmers of goldenness. Huzzah! I’m a goddess!</p><p id="93d1">And then the next day, I repeat the process because one can’t have too many highlights. Especially when our days are filled with dark thoughts and dim projections for the future.</p><p id="83dd"><i>November can’t come soon enough.</i></p><p id="0a4f">And when November does come along with cooler weather, I’ll want my hair to revert back to its natural chestnutiness. I guess there’s no satisfying me. But for now, I want hair like one of the two Jessicas. Alba, or Biel. It doesn’t matter.</p><p id="8bf6">The other day, I was at the nail salon with my sister, Diane. Thankfully, their safety measures are top-notch. They minimize the number of clients being serviced at one time and everyone is masked and gloved. And I don’t get to see my sister much these days, so I treasure our mani/pedi dates.</p><p id="94de">I was excited to show Diane my shimmering strands. I had my hair up so she could see the lighter ends piled on top of my head.</p><p id="639e">“Look! What do you think?” I asked my sister, who I knew would tell me the truth.</p><p id="90f7">She squinted. I turned my head this way and that.</p><p id="9c06">She squinted even more. I practically bent double to give her the full effect.</p><p id="3b9b">Finally, after a few seconds, Diane said, “Babe…you need to use more.”</p><p id="1f60">I flopped back in my massage chair, crestfallen. Tressfallen.</p><p id="0ad3">Now that I think about it, my sister’s response sounds like a metaphor. For life, maybe.</p><p id="2900"><b>I need to use more.</b></p><p id="ee28">When I figure it out, I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile, thanks for reading.</p><p id="c316"><i>Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.</i></p><figure id="7613"><img src="https://cdn-images-1.readmedium.com/v2/resize:fit:800/0*j3GgRRJ7qMSsWCez"><figcaption></figcaption></figure><p id="cf46">If you enjoyed this story, you might also like the following:</p>

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Hair Today, Bored Tomorrow

Yes, I can foretell the future

As I sit here struggling to come up with content that will at the very least, entertain my lovely readers and fellow writers, all I can think about is my stupid hair. The stuff on my head, not down below. I’ll deal with that another day.

Why am I fixated on my tresses? Because I’m bored out of my friggin’ mind and I need something to play with. Or, someone. I was bored yesterday. I’m bored today, and if experience holds true, I’ll be bored tomorrow. And you probably will be, too.

I’m an empath. Have I not told you that?

My hair color is a dark chestnut. It’s “virgin” as a commercial dye, whether salon or self-administered, has not touched my head in like, forever. I’m afraid of the chemicals. My brain is already semi-fried, so coating my scalp in ingredients I can’t pronounce, is out of the question.

Yet every summer, I long for shimmering, surfer-girl highlights. It just feels, right, you know? The fantasy of having sun-kissed locks and tanned skin, “seasoned” by the tang of saltwater. An herbaceous gin and tonic followed by sweaty sex on a deserted beach with a not-too-bright cabana boy.

Nah. Scratch that last one. I like my men to have brains. And young stuff isn’t my thing.

What a bullshit fantasy, people. I’m nowhere near an ocean and I don’t tan anymore. We don’t even have that going for us. Melanomas: Not good. And as for sex…

But my hair is a different story. I’m regressing where my locks are concerned. I really want those sexy highlights. And why not? That particular fantasy is at least attainable.

So I’ve been messing around with a lot of sprays, gels, and other sun-lightening nostrums that have been gathering dust in my cabinets for years.

You remember Sun-In, don’t you? It’s still around and I haven’t gone there in recent years, but many of the potions I’ve used are similar in that they contain a smidgen of peroxide, along with chamomile and other “natural lightening” ingredients.

Stupidly, I’m constantly perusing websites that suggest things like using vodka and lemon juice as a natural lightener. No thanks. I’m laying off that particular cocktail for a while, so I don’t think pouring it over my head is going to do me any favors.

I must sound terribly bored to be going on about my hair like this. And hell, yes! I am! I mean, aren’t you? You must be doing stupid shit, too. Maybe you’re taking an online course in taxidermy, or sewing little outfits for your kids’ stuffed toys or watching YouTube videos of people speaking in tongues.

Now how would I know about that?

We’re all dealing with the pandemic in our own way and mine happens to involve my crowning glory. Ergo, I spritz and I spray and I dab and then I go for a walk in the bright sunshine, or sweat my ass off on our deck.

And after the schmutz in my hair has dried, I run to the mirror like a little kid and scrutinize what in my considered opinion appear to be tiny glimmers of goldenness. Huzzah! I’m a goddess!

And then the next day, I repeat the process because one can’t have too many highlights. Especially when our days are filled with dark thoughts and dim projections for the future.

November can’t come soon enough.

And when November does come along with cooler weather, I’ll want my hair to revert back to its natural chestnutiness. I guess there’s no satisfying me. But for now, I want hair like one of the two Jessicas. Alba, or Biel. It doesn’t matter.

The other day, I was at the nail salon with my sister, Diane. Thankfully, their safety measures are top-notch. They minimize the number of clients being serviced at one time and everyone is masked and gloved. And I don’t get to see my sister much these days, so I treasure our mani/pedi dates.

I was excited to show Diane my shimmering strands. I had my hair up so she could see the lighter ends piled on top of my head.

“Look! What do you think?” I asked my sister, who I knew would tell me the truth.

She squinted. I turned my head this way and that.

She squinted even more. I practically bent double to give her the full effect.

Finally, after a few seconds, Diane said, “Babe…you need to use more.”

I flopped back in my massage chair, crestfallen. Tressfallen.

Now that I think about it, my sister’s response sounds like a metaphor. For life, maybe.

I need to use more.

When I figure it out, I’ll get back to you. Meanwhile, thanks for reading.

Sherry McGuinn is a slightly-twisted, longtime Chicago-area writer and award-winning screenwriter. Her work has appeared in The Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times, and numerous other publications. Sherry’s manager is currently pitching her newest screenplay, a drama with dark, comedic overtones and inspired by a true story.