Ride me hard, put me to bed wet hair
by Francesca Vallone
© 2002

Hair incredible hair, long, short, sleek, neatÄ mine has never fit in. For years I wished I had the mentality to wear the looks good in jeans or a suit hair. But I never quite fit into that mold.

I think it is a mindset. God knows that stylist have for years tried, threatened and even cut my hair to fit those molds. But no sooner am I out the door and my fingers are raking through the perfectly combed locks, playing and twisting until I can reclaim my look.

Ever since I could first remember, women with that just fucked hair were sexy to me. I wanted the hair of sluts, prostitutes and whores. I wanted to touch that gritty-I-know-it-all sexy thing they seemed to have. Of course my mother wouldnęt allow it. So I protested in my own way allowing my hair to snarl and knot. My father called it a ratęs nest. My mother would spend hours combing through it, unknotting the mess making it perfect. And I would cry.

Just before college I visited a hip shop. The stylist was supposed to be New York trained. I was excited. I brought a picture of what I wanted, sat in the chair and closed my eyes. In a few short moments my waist long hair was sheared off. But instead of the sheep dog hair I expected I received a look right out of Saturday night fever ® all sprayed and big and all too neat for my tastes. I smiled, tipped the woman, because that is what good girls do, and went home to try and fix the mess on the top of my head. Out came the shears ® off came the hair ® in chunks - easy as pie ® ravaged hair.

In college the Dorothy Hamill look was popular. Not a style I wanted but I figured no sweat after all I was going to school in NYC. Someone here should know what I wanted. So I made a few phone calls, gathered up another picture, jotted a few notes and headed out to a swanky shop uptown. But another miscommunication cost me most of my hair as I saw no other alternative but to cut out the wedge I was given. Again, out came the shears ® off came the hair ® in layers - easy as pie ® fuck me hair.

After college I moved to Connecticut. Home to Muffy, perfect hair and green Volvo station wagons. Not a place you would expect to find that fuck me over hair look. And I didnęt but what I did find was a gay man that taught me how to rub the crown to frizz it ever so slightlyÄ accentuating the cut he did give me. So although it was not technically the cut I hoped for it was not exactly the perfect yuppie do either. The shears stayed in the drawer and waited.

Years later when I followed my husband down south. Home of Tammy Faye Baker Big hair. I found I had one hell of a time explaining that I did not want hair spair. That I did not like teasing. That I wanted it shagged and layered and yes I did know how that looked and it was how I wanted my locks cut.

When all else failed I gave them my very politically incorrect description. But the Bible belt beauty shop mentality did not know how to digest my description. Okay maybe I said it for effect. But that just fucked and rolled out of bed ravaged shag cut describes to a "T" exactly what I wanted.

Needless to say I have gone through 6 hairdressers/ stylists since moving here to small town USA. I have had bowl cuts, and prim and proper cuts and I have women cry and say I canęt cut it that way and others have lied and given me hair that looked old enough to be worn by my grandmotherÄ. Damn isnęt anyone listening.

Then poof, just when I decided that life would be easier if I just go back cutting my own hair my fairy godmother comes to the rescue.

This monthęs Vogue is toting the Rock Star Goddess look as the next have to have fashion statement ® So maybe they donęt call it fuck me hard, put me to bed wet hairÄ but the effect is the same and maybe now I can finally put the shears away.