Overconfidence-itis

There are times in our lives when we suffer from a disease of uncontrollable proportions, known as ego. That word has a tendency to bring to mind an image of over muscled, testosterone filled males engaged in attempts to best one another with sports, cars, or women. I submit that often times ego can take different forms than the most commonly known “male ego” and manifest itself in other, more subtle ways. I was a victim of someone else’s overconfidence a few weeks ago, and it is with great relief that I relate to you the story of my narrow survival from said experience.

I was visiting my parents one weekend when my darling little sister Jodi stopped by to visit. You see Jodi has been attending a school in town to learn the art of hair, makeup and nails, so it came as no surprise to me when she suggested that my hair was less than satisfactory. “Ooooohhhhh! Kristi, let me do your hair!!!!!” she said as only a hyper nineteen year old girl can. “It will be so gorgeous! I will do a French twist and you can wear it to church tomorrow! You will look so beautiful!” With apprehension for her reaction, I considered my options. I could refuse, only to have her berate me as to my current lack of style, or I could agree and end up looking like the lost prom girl. She turned those pleading puppy dog eyes on me and I gave in. “Fine” I said, “but no prom girl hair, I want casual elegance, ok?” I should have recanted my decision when she insisted that casual elegance was an oxy moron, but alas, my final thought was “how bad can it be?” How bad indeed…

After washing and drying my hair, which by the way she made me do myself, (so much for learning customer service at that ridiculous school) she sat me down at the kitchen table across from my dad who was grading papers. I asked for a mirror, and she refused, saying “You don’t want to ruin the surprise!” Right. Surprise. Then she asked “What eye do you want to cover?” Um, what? I don’t like to have hair hanging in my eyes, thank you. I said “If you are asking what side I part my hair on, it is the right side.” Satisfied, she took up her torture devices, uh hem, curling iron and comb. She started by curling every hair on my head, and following up with a lovely cloud of hairspray for each and every strand. After using a can of hairspray and an entire packet of bobby pins, she stepped back and pronounced that she was done. I guess she was looking only at the back of my hair, as I had a straight section of my bangs, hanging down, as promised in front of my eyes. “Were you planning on fixing these?” I said blowing the unruly strands from my eyes. Apparently she forgot that just fixing the back of someone’s hair is, as a rule, unacceptable. She finished them a few seconds later and proclaimed to everyone in the house that her masterpiece was done, and then invited them to look upon the loveliness that was my head. My dad looked up and raised his eyebrows in shock. “Doesn’t she look just like grandma?” my sister asked enthusiastically. (My grandmother wore a French twist for the last 20 years of her life) My dad stammered to find something to say. “No” he replied tentatively. The horror on his face was obvious. I stood up and turned around slowly to view my reflection in the mirror. My hair was beyond description. I muttered “ok, thanks!” and took off quick as I could. Like a car accident that you can’t turn away from, I went down to the bathroom to look again. The sides were slicked back and crispy from the hairspray to the point that the bottom half of my hair looked painted on. The back was twisted and bobby pinned all over the place in a crooked line like a wound stitched by an inebriated doctor. The top section was all loopy curls, tucked in with, you guessed it, more bobby pins, and shellacked to the point that it was not the original color. Overall, I looked like a large blond mushroom had taken up residence on my head, bulging out uncontrollably above my ears. I touched it in disbelief, and was not surprised when it didn’t move an inch. It was lost prom girl meets bride of chucky. Oh the terror of it all.

I went to bed, too tired to fight with it. The next morning when I got up to prepare for church, I spent almost an hour detangling myself and pulling bobby pins from the nest that had formed. Needless to say, I did not wear my hair like that to church. And through it all, my darling little sister was in the background, suffering silently with her highly uncontrollable overconfidence-itis, never realizing that her skills may yet need a bit of refining before her subjects are forced to go out in public after experiencing some of her handiwork. The poor dear…