A brief history of my hairbrushes

For the first time *ever,* I purchased a hairbrush yesterday. Yes, that's right. I made it 37 years without ever buying a brush for my hair -- or anyone else's (except the dog).

You might wonder how I've made it this long. Or perhaps you'd just as soon not know. Either way....

Apparently, I was a terrible child in many respects, but one of things I am reported to have hated the most was getting my hair brushed. Those of you who see me regularly know what a tangle of curls I've got going on at times. (For those who haven't seen me in a while: I've been growing out my hair since August. It's almost six inches long, but you wouldn't know it because it's mostly whickety-whack curls and thus looks shorter than it is.)

On accounts my hair wasn't washed regularly as a kid, you can imagine that I didn't like getting all these curls brushed. I had tangles like nobody's business, but every so often, my mother would go to great lengths to try to straighten this shit out. This mainly happened when it was time for class photos or some other circumstances where I was supposed to look "presentable." And "presentable" apparently meant "with straight hair." Which I don't have.

Also, I had/have a tender scalp. (Fine. *Every* part of me seems to be tender. But I don't think that's a character defect....)

So it's not like I ever had a love affair with hairbrushes, is my point. Up until I was in middle school, any hairbrush I had was provided by a parent or grandparent. The only one I recall seemed more ornamental than practical. The bristles were too soft for getting through my thick hair; in fact, they were *so* soft that I sometimes rubbed the brush on my cheeks because it felt good.

That's probably the source of some sexual fetish of which I'm not yet aware....

But I digress.

When I was 12 or 13 years old, my aunt gave me a hairbrush as a gift. It was a fancy "salon" hairbrush on accounts she was a hair stylist and owned her own salon. This was my first brush with the plastic tines with the little balls on the end, vented so it could be used with a blow dryer. (Once upon a time, I did have a blow dryer, but I don't know that I ever used it.)

That brush lasted me nearly 25 years. In fact, it was only in the last year or so that XGF finally persuaded me to part with it. The rubber grip on the handle had long ago dried out and started to disintegrate. And even though I cleaned it regularly, there was an accumulation of towel lint at the base of the bristles that I never could quite get off. Sometimes, XGF would catch me in the bathroom, picking at the lint.

"You need a new brush," she would say. And, mind you, she was using this old brush of mine, too.

Eventually, she went out and got her own brush. I used it a time or two (out of curiosity; it wasn't a betrayal of my good old reliable, I swear to you). And then I noticed one day that, after XGF tidied up the bathroom, my brush wasn't where I always put it. I found it hiding in a cabinet. I pulled it out and put it back on the counter.

There was a come-to-jesus talk.

And then, I *threw away* that good old brush of mine, that friend of all those many years. That bit of purple plastic and black tines that had seen me through high school and college and moving to California -- and ALL of California, which included three relationships and many years of living alone -- and had come up here to Oregon with me, where it took up residence in three separate bathrooms and ... well, it nearly survived *one more* relationship. But then, we parted ways.

It went to the landfill. And I just went without.

I used XGF's brush for a while. But when we broke up, there was nothing. (Such has been the case with my silverwear and a lot of kitchen equipment. I had some before I met XGF, but I moved out empty handed. Hmmm.)

For a month, I lived on my own, completely brushless. After towel drying my hair every morning, I ran my fingers through it -- and that was all. But yesterday morning, I thought (or, likely, said outloud to myself), I'm sick of getting all this hair on my hands. I should be pulling it out of a brush instead of picking it out of my fingers and cleaning it out of the sink. Yuck.

So there I was in the grocery store yesterday afternoon, buying some potatoes for one of my independent-living-skills development projects (aka, learning to roast potatoes), when I saw a collection of hairbrushes on an end cap. I wasn't really sure what I wanted -- except, obviously, the kind with tines that have little balls on the end -- so I simply selected the one with the most pleasing color.

I told S2 about this today, and she sounded a bit grave: "I hope that works out for you. I find that brushes can be very particular. I've used them for a month and decided: You are just not right for me. And I've had to get a different one."

I didn't think of the possibility my relationship with this brush might not work out, I said. I don't really know what I want in a brush. I hadn't considered the options. I guess if it doesn't work out, well ....

It's funny. I agonized over the silverwear I recently purchased, reasoning in part that I'd better get something I like because I could easily be using it for 15 or 20 years. Given my history with hairbrushes, you'd think I would have accorded this purchase the same respect. But I didn't. Only time will tell if I made the right choice or not. For now, I'll act like I'm committed -- and hope for the best.