Ever since the first wrinkled, squishy, pre-human creature struggled
from the primordial ooze and inquired about the price of Botox, people
have been seeking ways to make themselves more attractive.
Cavemen would put bones in their hair. I know this is true, because I
saw it on The Flintstones.
Jessica Burgess
Clearly Unedited
During the Renaissance, women would wear high powdered wigs so full of
grease (they didn't have Aqua Net back then) that rats would live in
them. Sometimes the women would make friends with the rats. No one else
would hang out with them, because they had rats in their hair.
These days, those of us who can't afford plastic surgery (or are too
horrified by the prospect of what our dads would say if we came home for
Thanksgiving with new double-Ds) have gone absolutely insane with the
relatively modern phenomenon of dyeing our hair.
I bring this up because you may have noticed that in my new picture
(left), my hair is a different color than in the old one. You are
probably feeling betrayed and suspicious.
"What else is Jessica lying about," you are thinking, "if she can't even
be honest about her hair color?" (Answer: Everything.) You might also,
in your hurt disillusionment, be wondering what my natural hair color
is. That's something you, as readers, certainly deserve to know. The
problem is I don't really remember.
Many years ago, I was disconsolately examining my appearance in the
bathroom mirror. Suddenly a voice rang out. I don't know if it was God,
an intruder in my apartment, or an LSD flashback. Wait, no, I meant LDS.
I used to be Mormon.
So let's just say it was God. "Jessica," God said. "I don't want to
insult you, but there's something I put in this world especially with
you in mind: CLAIROL."
What followed was a heady (ha!) time, a montage of all kinds of
hair-coloring venues, from pricey salons to $5 dye jobs in my own sink.
But as it turns out, several years of too much of a good thing can fry
your hair so bad that when you go in to a salon to get a trim, the
stylist looks at your red, blonde and brown hair grimly and says, "No.
This is a mess. It's all coming off." Then, when you protest, she shoots
you with a tranquilizer dart.
So I'm back at square one, with the hair I suspect I've had most of my
life. And it's really not so bad. I'm even trying vintage styles to pep
it up. Do you think this bone is flattering?
If you send Jessica anything containing the words "carpet" or
"drapes," she is hunting you down and punching you. Otherwise, e-mail
her at jburgess@quickdfw.com.
