My hair is about the same texture. And I own a brush.
My parents were generous with the genes. I have ten fingers, can perform simple arithmetic in my head, and am generally employable. Let’s be clear on my gratitude before I start to whine.
One area in which their chromosomes did not work to my favor? Hair. I was a bald baby, and – based on the hair in my shower drain – am returning that state with haste. Which, while acceptable for a man, is a serious curse as woman.
One of my earliest memories in the barber’s chair is of the stylist (who also happened to be my friend Julie’s mom) pronouncing, “Her hair is both fine and thin. This is a problem.”
She then went on to punish my folicle inferiority by yanking my head to various angles and snipping the limp hair to resemble a bowl. I blame her for more than one stranger calling me “him” in my pre-pubescent years. Though in fairness, my mom could’ve pieced my ears early to help the cause.
Fast forward thirty-some years, and my hair situation has gotten only marginally better. I say marginally, because I have the same shitty hair. But I now have a fabulously gay hairdresser (Tom) who tries to console me. Or at least doesn’t make everyone in the salon come study my thinning crown.
While getting my hair cut this weekend, I started to make disparaging remarks, thinking I could head off the inevitable. “Why are you putting yourself down?” Tom asked, in his sassy Czech accent. I shrugged.
“Honey,” he continued. “I don’t judge. My penis is big enough that I don’t need to judge other people for anything.”
Fair enough. But my eyebrows must’ve lifted, because without prompting, he continued, “More than eight inches is just a waste.”
That demonstrates what – in addition to mad scissor skillz – makes Tom fabulous: he has no boundaries and likes to provide details.
Earlier in our conversation, we started discussing the guy he’s dating.
Me: What do you like about him?
Tom: For one thing, he is a great kisser. But he has tiny lips.
Me: Tiny lips are a problem?
Tom: Yes. My lips hit his stubble.
Me: Ah. But you said he was a great kisser?
Tom: Well, I have to wear balm on my lips now. I don’t like that.
Me: I’m addicted to bag balm. Don’t expect sympathy.
Tom: But yes, he is a great kisser, because he has straight teeth!
Me: Straight teeth?
Tom (sighing): Yes!
Me: They affect the quality of the kiss?
Tom (putting down his scissors and staring at me): You have never kissed someone with bad teeth.
Not to my knowledge, at least.
So back to my hair. I looked in the mirror and just saw damage: sun, chlorine, color, blow-dryer. Tom didn’t let that stop him. He trimmed away, wrapping up with his signature move of spinning me around in front of the mirror so I could see it from every angle.
He nodded. His verdict? “Very sexy.”
I’m pretty sure he was talking about my teeth, but I’m going to suspend disbelief and pretend he meant my hair.
pithypants 
Did you say “bag balm”?
Yes. It’s for my bags.