Have you ever in your entire life, even once, heard an American woman past the age of ten utter these words? “I love my hair! It always does exactly what I want it to do.” Odds are you’ve never heard these words stated and even if you did, the woman was lying to you. Hair, specifically the hair on our heads, is this week’s addition to the VIP series which currently includes purses, shoes, scarves, jewelry, hats, and the all-important finale: table settings. We’ll get to table settings next week. This week the topic is hair. (Advice for men who don’t care about women’s hair: Read this anyway. It may provide you with valuable insights that could help save a relationship.) In today’s deliberations, I’m exclusively referring to modern American ladies because there are entire nations of women who solve the problem of what to do with their hair by covering it with scarves or wigs which, as far as I’m concerned, is a really good idea. Take, for example, the women who came from the town in Poland where my mother was born. They arrived in America wearing scarves, which served them well in Lodz. However, as soon as they got a look, not only at the fancy updos sported by the natives in the Bronx but the hats (never underestimate the influence of a really good hat), they became inventive. They decided that wigs were just as religiously sanctioned as a means of covering one’s hair in public as a scarf and dove into New World Fashion with a vengeance. Seriously, a measly scarf or a magnificent wig topped off by a gorgeous hat so big you’d strain your neck if you bent over. Which one wins? The wig of course! Eventually, they became de rigor. Scarves were left to Grandmothers who were too set in their ways to give a rat’s ass about modern times. Find a copy of Carol Kane’s “Hester Street” and you’ll see what I mean. My mother started wearing wigs in the 1960s. Before then, she tried to comb her three hairs into a “do” with the use of curling rods and lots of back teasing. She still looked like she had three hairs. Wigs were her salvation. One of the horrors of my daughter’s childhood was her first sleep-over at Grandma’s. She was tucked into bed, waiting for Grandma to join her, when she saw my mother take off her head. That’s exactly what it looked like to a five-year old who had never seen Grandma without a wig. Ma took off her head, crawled into bed without a word of explanation, and fell asleep expecting her granddaughter to do the same. However, her granddaughter was too freaked out to ever get over the experience. The only time Ma gave up her wigs was when she went to live in the Grand Hotel we called a senior care center. It was a new start in life so she abandoned her wigs. By that time her three hairs were long enough to wrap into a bun at the back of her neck, which turned her immediately from an Eastern European into a Spanish Queen. No, really, she looked quite regal and very Sephardic. This helped answer the question as to why everyone in Seville thinks my daughter is a native. Apparently there was a family layover in southern Spain en route to Poland. My sister inherited her mother’s three hairs. Her story will give you incontrovertible proof of the importance of today’s topic. We were talking about exercising and how we both detested it. Her doctors insisted she begin an exercise regimen so her first challenge was walking from her office to the spot where she ate lunch. That involved a little uphill slope, which counted as exercise as far as we were concerned. Then she said what she’d really like to do instead would be to swim. She was always good swimmer and it was the only thing resembling exercise she enjoyed. Why not use the indoor pool at her sports center, I asked? “I’d get my hair wet,” she replied. “Use a swim cap.” “They don’t work and besides, they mess up my hair.” “Then comb it out.” “I can’t comb it out.” “Why?” “My hair is too fine and flat. When I go to the salon once a week, they tease it and spray it solid. If I’m careful not to disturb it too much I can go all week not looking like a drowned rat.” There was no arguing with that reasoning and so, for the sake of Hair, my sister gave up the joys of swimming in warm water. As I said, priorities. Somewhere in my late thirties, I started noticing a few gray hairs amongst my bangs. The same day I mentioned this to a friend and she said, “Yes, you do have a fair amount of gray.” That was the same day I made an appointment to get my hair dyed. I paid someone in a salon to do it. Picking out a color was tricky but I opted for copper. I think that’s what I got. However, even salon dyes fade and then you have to go back and pay more money, which we didn’t have. So my sister-in-law said there’s no need to worry; we could buy hair color in a box and she would apply it. We picked out something that looked like my copper color, she applied it, and then we had a nice visit. After an hour or two she washed it off and sent me on my way. I distinctly remember the strange look she had on her face as we walked into the sunlight and headed to my car. “Is anything the matter?” I asked. “No. (insert long pause and petrified expression.) No. Just call me when you get home.” I arrived home and my daughter got the second take-your-head-off startle of her life. When I recently asked if she had any pleasant memories of living in NowhereLand, she replied, “Daddy built a really fun swing set. And there was the day you came home with purple hair.” Today that would be fine. Purple hair, green hair, mufti colored, it’s all good. But in the 1970s, not so much. In fact, not at all. One look in the mirror, and I called my sister-in-law. “Why didn’t you tell me you dyed my hair purple?” “I didn’t realize it was that bad until we went outside and then I got scared.” For three weeks I never left the house without a scarf covering my head and still the purple reigned supreme. In desperation I scavenged enough money to go back to the salon to rectify the damage. Do you know how stylists repair purple? With green dye. I kid you not, I sat for four hours while a patient lady dyed my hair green. Step two was to cover the green with something like chlorine bleach. That took another two hours. By the time I left, my hair was no longer plumb purple, it was circus clown red. Stop laughing; it wasn’t funny. I’d spent every penny I owned to turn my head into a Big Tent Act. Yet after a few more weeks of wearing scarves, something strange happened. I began to like my hair color. It’s wasn’t exactly Lucile Ball red; it was auburn, I guess. I couldn’t promise you because, you know, color blind, but I liked it and tried to maintain it by running away from home and finding a different salon. Remember now, these were the Big Hair days. I’d seen a romantic book cover with the heroine’s curling auburn tresses reaching her waist and decided that was going to be my new look. What with the hair dye and my natural curls, all I needed to do was let it air dry and never cut it. As a result, there are family photos where a woman with my face is surrounded by a startling amber-colored coif that looms from the top of her head to her shoulders like a hot air balloon. It wasn’t long before one of my nephews started asking his mom if Aunty Bo was coming over. “Aunty Who?” “Aunt Bo. You know, the one with the hair like Bozo the Clown.” That was it. The name stuck. I’m still Aunty Bo. I’m telling you, Hair shaped my destiny. Eventually, I came full circle from honest blonde childhood to bleached blonde seniority. Suffice it to say, I am now told my hair has turned white naturally (not) and looks so much better this week than it did last time they saw me. That’s because I wash it, condition it, apply more goo, straighten it, curl it, and then spray it to make it dirty again, every other day. This brings us back to where we started. I dare you to find one woman who doesn’t spend time, money, and more time trying to make her hair look different than the way it looked when she woke up in the morning with what is affectionately referred to as “bed head.” It’s not just women! My father spent 54 years of his 64-year life applying pomade in an effort to comb his curly hair straight. My mother and sister sat in rollers under hair dryers for days trying to force their straight hair into curls. And I use an iron to flatten my head. I rest my case. Hair definitely qualifies as a Very Important Piece of our lives.