When I Win the Lottery I Am Going to Have My Own Hair Stylist. And Masseuse. But First I Have to Play the Lottery.

Here's what I don't get (among other things: Mariah Carey, the deal with Israel and Palestine, playing piano with two hands at the same time)--I don't get Heidi braids. I mean, I love them. Covet them. Close my eyes and picture myself wearing the perfect boho purple paisley dress with my hair all done up like only a German orphan living with her grandfather on the Swiss Alps can be braided. But I don't get how to do them. Granted I seem to have been born lacking a few stereotypical female traits. I don't have the cooking gene, never really daydreamed about my own big tulle fondant seven layer wedding day, and I am seriously lacking the seventh rung on my DNA which scientists at MIT have discovered is the one in which woman learn how to do their own hair. Here the helix is off-kilter or something, crooked, because for the life of me I cannot do anything with my hair but a ponytail, and a lumpy ponytail at that. I mean, is it just me or did Heidi not have any bobby pins living high up on that mountain top with an old cranky man? Perhaps she used the toenail clippings of her sheep to fasten her plaits? What? I don't know.

Anyway, this is how I spent my weekend: watching these You Tube hair-do tutorials with this adorable chick and then running to my mirror to see if I could do it. I can't. My hair is at once too slippery, too puffy, too layered, too mine. In short, my hair grows out of my head, me with the missing girlie gene, which means it is forever intent on just sort of lying there. Like that. But never like this:


Still, if I can show just one person how to create her own Heidi braids I will be happy. And very jealous. You people with your perfectly lined up seventh genome--I might follow you down the street staring at your pretty pretty hair; I might reach one hand out to let my fingertips graze your head. (But not in a creepy way, of course.) I might watch videos of you doing your hair over and over and over again trying to memorize the way you open that bobby pin with your teeth. (This in an unmistakeably creepy way.)

In related news: I think this young gent has the aforementioned hair-do gene. In fact, I am pretty sure he stole mine. Who's got my back should I confront him?

*I found the Heidi tutorial here. God knows where I found the beard-do pic.