So, if you’re not aware, I put in my own hair extensions the other day with the aid of a few YouTube DIY videos, one of which was called “Ashley’s Awesome Hair.” Aside from the pain of putting in the cornrows (or, as the as lady at the store called them, “black girl french braids”) it was a relatively bearable process, especially when I took control. Okay, I mean, when my sister got tired of the project and I had to start sewing them in myself. I was so impatient to have luscious hair I looked like a sweatshop worker trying to make deadline on my head.
My new Rapunzel ‘do had me thinking of an extension-related story of considerable note. Let this serve as a warning to any of you thinking clip-ins are a fab idea. In certain scenarios THEY ARE NOT.
I was out at a club (I mean, err, the library) a few years ago, standing around pretending to be really casual about my uber-thick, insanely long hair. No one had to know it was courtesy of the Jessica Simpson, Kim Paves line of synthetic hair, right? I mean, for God’s sake. This was like, QVC’s top product at the time. I felt like such star, just sashsay-ing all over the room, letting my weave take center stage.
You’d have thought I was Britney after the 2000 VMAs the way I was owning the room. Ugh, I just was so fierce. Sure, my head could go up in flames if it came into close contact with any girl carrying a bottle of champagne with sparklers coming out of it, but potential baldness was so small a price to pay for this evening of hair glory.
Soon enough I was chatting with what still might rank as one of the most attractive men I’ve ever had the pleasure of mindlessly conversing with in a venue where you can barely hear one other. I can’t remember his name but it was something Austrian, probably Freidrich or Kurt. Just a thought. He was a member of the national Austrian soccer team and they were in town for some reason. Errr, I mean football. Swooooooon!
He spoke absolutely horrendous English which was fine because my German is nothing to write home about. After trying to ask him 15 different ways if he’d been on “The Sound of Music” tour in Vienna, I gave up and let him tell me about the autobahn and schnitzel, mainly because those were the only two German words I could think of.
The great thing is you don’t need to speak any language to be led over to a dark corner for a M.O. sesh. That’s just the language of lurrrrrve, baby. We began kissing and I could tell he was about to cop a feel. No, you pervs…he was going to grab my head.
I panicked. Hair extensions, especially this one (it was like, one giant fall of hair) rank up as one of the most disturbing and gruesome discoveries a man can make. I imagine it’s akin to thinking you’re with a goddess when all of a sudden you realize it’s just a mortal hosting a furry animal atop her head.
With only seconds to spare, I pulled away and gave my best “shocked and surprised” face.
“Oh my God!” I said, pointing dramatically across the room. “What is that!?”
Immediately he turned around and as he did I whipped that fake hair out and smashed it into my purse faster than a Nascar tire change.
Except for the fact that I then had to carry around what amounted to something Jeff Corwin would talk about on Animal Planet for the rest of the evening. The whole rest of the night I worried that either my purse or hand seemed to be shedding 18-inch blonde hairs. Ah well, small price to pay for beauty.