Just don't call it The Butt Wave.

I have always had straight hair. As a kid it was stick straight and fine. And blond, but that’s a different post. I remember my mother telling me that she would know if I ever got pregnant because my hair would go curly. That’s what had happened to her.

Well I didn’t get pregnant, but with puberty my hair changed. It went from the sleek straightness I’d always know to wavy. I started calling it The Butt Wave mostly because I didn’t like it. It was half way in between straight and curly, and I didn’t like doing things half way.

I can admit I’m a bit of an extremist.

Then someone heard me call it The Butt Wave and thought I meant that it looked like a Butt-Rocker’s hair-do. I never listened to Butt Rock, but I’ve seen pictures of them. Oh, god, that was so not what I wanted to look like!

A man with bad hair. No way.

So I did what any normal girl would do. I became close friends with my blow dryer. And a round brush. I bought the kind of product you use to make hair sleek, with fun names like Super Skinny. Who doesn’t want to be skinny?

For special occasions a home-done blow out wasn’t enough. I went out and bought a flat iron. After product and drying, I’d spritz on more product and clamp my hair down between the hot pieces of metal. And no cheap flat irons would do. I needed to see the steam rising and hear the sizzle for me to know it was really working.

Oh how I loved sleek, straight hair.

But then I went to Miami. I wasn’t worried because there is air-conditioning everywhere. Even my good-for-the-budget hotel. In the morning before I went out I showered and dried my hair straight like normal.

Normal on the West coast is not the same as normal in Miami.

I love the heat and the humidity, so I didn’t worry about anything. Until I looked in the mirror. My hair wasn’t straight anymore. It had poofed back out into its natural state. It was wavy. I grabbed an elastic hair band from my purse and stuck it up into a pony tail. I could worry about it later.

The next day I decided not to fight it. Why not just let my hair do what it wants and see what happens? I just wouldn’t take any pictures.

So I washed it and combed it, and then let it be. I went out into the heat of the day and walked around, doing normal tourist stuff. I totally forgot about my hair until I walked by a mirror. So I stopped and looked.

What I saw surprised me. My hair was wavy and bouncy and full of body. I liked what I saw.

Yes, that’s right, I actually liked my hair exactly how it was. No blow dryer, not flat iron, no skinny. It felt so good to like myself just as I was.

Since that trip I have decided to stop fighting nature in the form of my hair. I have decided to go with flow. Embrace the wave. I don’t call it The Butt Wave anymore. It’s just my hair.

And I like it the way it is.

What do you go through to get your hair the way you like it? What things do you like about yourself just they way they are?

Everywhere we look there are images of beautiful women. In magazines, on TV, in the movies. They usually meet the same standards: thin, young, and blond. There have been a few changes in what is beautiful over the past few years. Hair and skin can be a little darker. Ethnically ambiguous is ok, but thin and blond is still the best. Heidi Klum, Giselle, and that girl from the latest Transformer movie. They are beautiful.

Once every few years a magazine will include a picture of a “normal sized” woman and everyone will get excited. She is probably a size eight and considered plus size. And she won’t be in a mainstream magazine for another few years. Then the fashion critics give Octavia Spencer a Best-Dressed award and say she “knows how to dress for her figure.”

And we wonder why we all feel the pressure to eat less, work out, and stay wrinkle free.

But if we look at the women in our lives and think about who we consider beautiful, we would find a very different answer.

My friends are all beautiful in different ways. I have a tiny, pocket sized friend who has the most infectious smile. Another friend has perfect corkscrew curls and skin the color of cinnamon. One has the cutest button nose and another has bright green eyes that make everyone stare. They are all regular women and they are amazingly beautiful.

When I think of each of them separately, I think of features. What stands out on them. But when I picture them all together, I can see the source of true beauty. It shines from inside them. I know it sounds cheesy, but it’s true. You can see it in their eyes. They actually sparkle. Their skin glows like they wear some sort of shimmery moisturizer. And don’t get me started on their smiles. It’s like they smile with their entire bodies.

Yes, my friends are freaking gorgeous. More beautiful than most of the women on TV and in the magazines.

Because beauty is more than having a flat stomach or professionally styled hair. Real beauty comes from confidence, from knowing and loving who you are. There are actresses and models who radiate beauty. Think about it, you’ll see what I mean. The ones who you look at in the magazines and think, “Damn, she looks good!” They are the same kind of beautiful as you and me.

Beauty shines on the outside, but its source is deep within.

Pick up a mirror and look at yourself. Really look. You’ll see that I’m right. Beautiful.

How do you define beauty? What do you think of the media interpretation?

Tomorrow, Friday February 10^th, please check out August McLaughlin’s blog for the Beauty of a Woman Blog fest. There will be links to other blogs about beauty and a chance to win prizes, including a kindle. I hope you check it out.

That's me, the fatty in the middle.

I was a chunky kid, or so I thought. I grew up in the time before J.Lo and Beyonce hit it big. No one really looked at the Fly Girls as a body image role model. They were just background.

So, when I was with my school friends, it was hard for me to accept that I was thick. I used to dream of skinny thighs that didn’t even come close to each other and a flat butt that stayed inside jeans. Mine has always been round and, shall we say, meaty. Even as a kid I needed a belt to cinch in the waist over my derrière. I hope that’s French for butt.

Thankfully I have a family that loves me, accepts me, and always thought I was beautiful exactly as I am. In my family being thick wasn’t a bad thing. My dad and brother would tell me I didn’t need to run so much and they’d comment about how celebrities like Paris Hilton and Angelina Jolie looked like they needed to eat a burger.

But I always felt caught in between two worlds. The home world of my family where I was ok and the real world of everyone else. My friends always put down their own bodies, which were clearly smaller than mine. And their moms dieted and never had dessert. It was all about losing those last ten pounds.

I don’t remember ever having a scale in the house. But I do remember my step-mom pointing out someone and saying, “Oh, that poor woman, it must be rough to have a flat butt.” I’d laugh and say, “Yeah, I bet it hurts when she sits down.”

Then I went away to college and I didn’t see my family as often. I was surrounded by people who I thought were thin and beautiful. But, they all talked about being fat and not attractive enough. If they were fat, what did that make me?

So I went through college, and a few years after, being the fat friend. I was the one who couldn’t get her own date to the dance. Thank goodness for set-ups, right? Don’t get me wrong, my friends never told me I was fat or chubby, or even that I needed to work out. It was the assumption I made from the way they talked about themselves. I could see that they were thinner than me, so I figured I was a real fatty.

After enough time back home with my family, and living in Ecuador where I was called despampanante and caderona because being curvy and having hips is a good thing, I got my head back on straight. I could see that there is an epidemic of self hate in this country, especially when it comes to women and body image. Not to offend anyone, but I called it “White Girls’ Disease” because that’s where it usually runs rampant.

But I still couldn’t see that I had caught the disease. I thought I had really been obese in college and just lost all the weight. Sure, I started working out in grad school and became a runner for a while. Yeah, I lost some weight. Maybe ten whole pounds.

Then I took it too far and tried dieting. I portioned out mini meals and stuck to a plan six days a week, only to gorge on my off day. All I thought about was food and my next meal. I wasn’t fun to be around. Finally, a friend told me it was disgusting and I’d taken it too far. So I stopped.

I’m sure my body went up or down a little at the time, but not enough to make a big difference. I have never been a swimsuit model and I’m ok with that. I think I look better with a little meat on my bones. Actually, I think all women do. But that’s just my opinion.

The shocking thing was for me to look back at pictures and see who I really was. A picture of me at my heaviest didn’t look so good, that’s true. It was also taken close up from a bad angle and my hair was highlighter yellow. I thought I was enormous back then, even though I bought all my clothes at the regular store. Size ten isn’t actually plus size.

The problem was all in my head.

I saw myself as fat no matter what was actually staring back at me in the mirror. That’s how bad this epidemic is. It twists our image of ourselves so much that we become blind to the truth. I was beautiful. I am beautiful. A few pounds up or a few pounds down doesn’t really change that much. But until we undo the brainwashing that comes from the media, society, everywhere it seems, we can’t see how beautiful we really are.

You are beautiful.

And my brother is right, those celebrities could stand to eat a burger!

Have you ever thought you were heavier than you really are? Ever felt pressure to be a certain size? Look a certain way?

E.T. phone home. And ask for a retainer.

We all know people who are photogenic. Even if they don’t look so good in real life, in pictures they could be a model. I even have one friend who will make you stand on a chair and tilt the camera at the perfect angle to take her picture. Yes, including random moments and while chaperoning the kids at the amusement park. She never has to worry about a bad picture.

I look better in real life. People who love me put it nicely. “You’re cuter in person.” Was what my step-mom said when I asked her to help me choose a profile picture for FaceBook. And the one time I was set up on a date, blind for me, I saw relief and surprise in his eyes when he saw me. He even told me I was prettier than he expected. Smooth. He must’ve seen a picture.

To solve the problem, I always forgot to take my camera with me. I used the same profile picture for years, the one my picky friend took on the beach. She was determined to find the right angle. In pictures with her, I looked like an alien with my giant five-head. Yes, that’s one finger wider than a forehead.

Then there was the crooked tooth to deal with. Small children have been known to ask if I’m a vampire. Not, it just looks pointy because of the way it’s twisted. The last dentist I went to said he could file it down and cap it. It sounded both gross and painful, and wasn’t covered by insurance. See mom, I told you I needed braces.

I tried bangs to cover the forehead, but that was when I learned the straight line just emphasized my cheeks. High cheekbones turn into a chipmunk hoarding acorns when I smile. I know I’m not fat, and most of the time I even think I’m cute. I’d think I looked fabulous, but then I’d see the picture. Hello, Vampire Chipmunk From Mars. I didn’t know what was going wrong.

Could I be the world’s most un-photogenic person?

Over the summer I had headshots taken. I hadn’t really planned on it, but one of my best friends is married to a professional photographer. She thought it would be fun. I thought I’d rather get a root canal.

We made a whole day of it: a make-over at the channel counter and playing dress-up in her closet. It was fun with her as my stylist.

But then came the dreaded camera. Thank goodness that Ryan knows me well, because I was a crabby pain in the butt. I was sensitive and hard to please, a total diva. He made fun of America’s Next Top Model and my friend danced around and made me laugh. Eventually I loosened up.

He was all about all lighting, artsy and interesting. I just wanted to like the way I looked. He took over 300 pictures that day and I honestly liked most of them. I was smiling. I looked happy. There was something fun behind my eyes.

Maybe I’m not so ugly in pictures. I guess I just have to find the right ratio of forehead-to-cheek-to-crooked-tooth. And be ok with it when I don’t.

How do you feel about having your picture taken? What are your best and worst angles?

Some people look good with gray hair.

At some point we all are going to go gray. There
seems to be a big difference in the way men and women are viewed with silver
hair. Men, like George Clooney, are considered handsome and seasoned. I don’t get the whole George Clooney thing, but that’s a different topic.

Women are considered just one thing when they go gray: old.

They may try to phrase it nicely with words like mature, wise, sage. Different ways of saying the same thing. Old.

What does that mean for us as we age?

There are the rare few who look great with gray hair. I am friends with one.

Gloria has long, wavy silver hair that flows to her mid-back. It makes her blue eyes stand out, and it fits her personality. I can’t imagine Gloria coloring her hair, or doing anything to change the way she looks. She is an original hippie, not one of those new fake eco-conscious hipsters who seem to be at every coffee shop referring to themselves at hippies. Gloria drives an old Mercedes that she had converted to run on
something like vegetable oil, but she walks most places unless it’s pouring with rain. She gardened, composted, and recycled long before it was cool. She’s not a vegan or a vegetarian and I’ve never seen her eat tofu.

Gloria is for real. And she rocks the gray hair.

But what about the rest of us? Me, I shop at Nordstom Rack and Winco. I drive a hybrid because I want to save money on gas, not for the environment. And, let’s be honest, I am anything but outdoorsy. Nothing about me says all natural,
from my purple eye shadow to my costume jewelry from Claire’s. I’m okay with
that. It’s me.

But when I go gray, will I leave it and try to make it work? I don’t think so.

With gray hair, I would just look old.  I do not have the personality to make gray
hair cool.

I am no Gloria.

Will any of you choose to go gray? Or will you be coloring your hair in the sink at the nursing home with me?

A dark-haired me.

Reinventing myself every month got old. And all the color changes were hard on my hair. Going from light to dark was not big deal,
but back the other way had consequences I didn’t like dealing with.

It was time to pick a hair color and stick with it.

I pulled out a bunch of old pictures and spread them all over the floor. I became an anthropologist, like Dr. Brennan on Bones. I was looking for what each hair color said about the culture of me.

Blonde. I had to admit I was cute in those pictures. I was always smiling and having fun. But it was also about trying to be something, someone I wasn’t. I was always trying to prove myself. To be blonde enough.

And after the hair dresser said the word “breakage” I knew I couldn’t go back to bleaching. A few highlights here and there, but no more blonde.

The red-head pictures are few. Probably because there were only so many things I could wear that looked good with the hair. No pink, no red. And no purple eye makeup. So clearly, red wasn’t the hair color for me.

I spent a few years at medium, mousey brown. But the pictures screamed BORING. I blended into the background and always looked washed out. At the time I thought natural was the best, and I tried to match my hair to my eyebrows. Talk about lame. Eyebrow is not a color.

The truth was I looked happy in all of the pictures. And they all looked like me, just different versions. Maybe I didn’t have to find the “right” hair color. I just had to do what I wanted at that moment.

I know what I like. I like extreme. Contrast. If I couldn’t go blonde without losing my hair, the other extreme was dark. So, I bought a box of dark brown at the beauty supply store and dyed my hair in the bathroom at home.

And I liked it.

The next day a friend saw me and said, “This hair color is the best. It’s you.”

I told her that I agree. It is me. At least for now.

Has anyone had the same hair color for a long time?
Do you define yourself by your hair color? Have you found a style or color that is the most you?

It's naturally red, of course.

If you read Part 1, you know that I was obsessed with being blonde, no matter how much it cost. But after college graduation and starting my first real job, I decided it was time to figure out who I really was.

I didn’t know myself. At all. What I liked, wore,
listened to, and did were the things I had always done. I hadn’t changed much since I was seven, except the pink flannel pajamas got bigger.

We all have that moment where we wonder who we are and what we want. All I knew was I wanted different.

So I went to the beauty school and told them I wanted to go dark. No specific color or shade, I just wanted a change. The girl picked a dark reddish brown, the same as Jennifer Love Hewitt, she said. Whatever. At least it wasn’t like me.

When she was done, I looked in the mirror and saw something different. Someone different. Me as I had always known her was gone. Unrecognizable. I liked it.

After a few months of dark hair, I went back to the beauty school. I was bored. Again. So I went red.

Change became my thing. I switched my hair color more often than most people changed their shoes. I was every color of brown and red imaginable, and even threw some blonde back in at times. The length and style varied with the colors from long and straight to short and spiky.

As soon as people were used to me with a certain hair color, it was time to change.

Run, run as fast as you can, you can’t catch me. I’ll change my hair again.

It turned out, what I liked was being different. Mysterious. Keeping people on their toes. It wasn’t the hair color or the reflection in the mirror that made me smile. It was the wide eyes and “Wow” of other people. Maybe I wasn’t really trying to find myself. It felt more like hiding.

Was it really that different from being blonde?

Have you ever tried to find yourself through hair color? What do you think it says about who we are? Any other hair-color-whores out there?

Me as a blond, on the right, with one of my besties.

My mother is one of those rare women who are
naturally blond, so it was lucky that I was born blond, too.

And it lasted for a few good years.

But somewhere in elementary school, that all
changed. My dad’s DNA kicked in and my hair went dark. It wasn’t that big of a deal, compared to the pink stirrup pants that made me look like a piglet in third grade and the spinach in my teeth in my fifth-grade school picture.

In sixth grade I got my first professional highlights as a birthday present. My dull brown hair went bright and blond. The reflection in the mirror looked like the girls in the magazines and on TV, a least a little. I was hooked.

I started asking for highlights for every available holiday. All I wanted for Christmas was to be blond. And beautiful. The two things became interchangeable for me.

A regular babysitting job in high school gave me the income to up my trips to the salon. Every other month I spent everything I had to stay blond.

It was my dirty little secret.

Everyone I knew assumed I was naturally blond, like my mother. They reinforced my blond obsession every time they told me how lucky I was to have such pretty hair.

Blonds really did have more fun.

Somewhere along the way obsession became an addiction. In college I was at the salon at least once a month, if not more. I went lighter and the highlights turned into all over platinum.

My greatest fear wasn’t death or failing a class, it was someone discovering I wasn’t a natural blond.

All of my self-worth and happiness was wrapped up in my hair color. Attention from guys, free drinks, even the sweet older ladies who called me Honey. I attributed it
all to being blond, naturally.

Without blond hair, I was nothing.

How important is hair color to our self-worth? Do you identify yourself based on your hair? Is anyone else currently, or ever been, obsessed with being blond?