Beauty Takes Pain: Hair Extension Torture

Hello, my name is Zoe, and I'm an addict.

That's right, I'm addicted to hair extensions.[1]  I love them.  Love, love, love them.  The way the Kardashian sisters love professional athletes.  The way Paula Abdul loves Percocet.  The way Jessica Simpson loves Photoshop.

Now, my natural hair is growing, slowly but surely.  In the meantime, I love having long, flowing, luscious locks of Indian Remy[2] hair.  

Over the years, I've used numerous hair extension techniques.  I used the clip-on ponytails, glue-in tracks, and sewed-in tracks.

The Brazilian Knot hair extension technique

None of them quite suited me 100% though.  The glue got stuck in my hands and was awkward to get out.  Leaves and twigs kept getting caught in the braids, and it was super awkward the one time I jumped on a trampoline and my clip-in ponytail went flying off and hit my date in the head.

So when I heard about the Brazilian Knot hair extension technique, I was super excited.  According to the Brazilian Knot website, "The Brazilian knot hair extension strand by strand technique requires no glue ,no tools, and no beads. JUST HAIR AND THREAD!"

I was sold.  I found a girl who did it near me and made an appointment.  I showed up, ready to be transformed into a semi-Rapunzel.

She instructed me to sit in the chair and relax.  She parted my hair, combed through it, and then-

YANK!

Holy hell!  What was that?  Did she rip my scalp off?  Was she pulling my hairs out one-by-one?  This hurt so bad!  She yanked some more, used some sort of instrument of torture (elastic thread) and twisted a few strands of hair around mine, pulled one more time (because I hadn't had enough pain yet), knotted it, and snapped it back into place.

Oh.  My.  God.  

After an hour of this torture, I was starting to understand why Britney shaved her head and was contemplating a similar look if it meant the pain would stop.  Every time she pulled, I felt like a laser was boring a hold through my head directly into my brain.  Each little knot, about a cm. long, felt like a knife being stabbed into my scalp.  I wanted to find Dick Cheney and call him a pansy for just waterboarding suspected terrorists.  This was way worse.

"Yes!  Yes!  I am part of Al Quaeda!  I have the dirty bomb!  Just please make her stop!"

After three hours, I was chewing on my pen cap, grinding my teeth into it, praying for the sweet release of death.  There were tears in my eyes and sorrow in my heart.  "Beauty takes pain," I repeated to myself, as the pain of a thousand shotguns blasted through my cranium.

Finally, she was done.  Wiping the tears from my eyes, I looked in the mirror.

I looked fucking spectacular.

"Now, tonight, you might have trouble sleeping, but that will go away in a few days," she warned.

Yeah, yeah.  I was just glad to be done.

That night, when I tried to go to sleep, I realized I had a problem.  The knots were still sticking straight out from my head.  I had to get just a millimeter of growth for them to lie flat, but that wouldn't happen for another day or two.  In the meantime, I was like a retarded porcupine[3] or puffer fish with small knots sticking out from my head.  The only way I could sleep was face down.  But then I would suffocate.

I got up and googled, "How do porcupines sleep?[4]"

According to the University of South Dakota's Natural Sciences Department, they sleep hanging in a tree.  Since I doubted the neighbors would be pleased to find me hanging from a tree in the morning[5], I adapted the best I could and hung my head off the side of the bed.  

Awww....just look at this little guy! 

A few days later, the pain abated and I was back to normal.  However, when flying out of the Detroit Airport, I got selected for the super special full-body scan.  

"Miss, could you step over here?" the female TSA agent asked.

"Um, OK, do I have something in my pocket?"

She listened to her earpiece, shook her head in confusion, and said, "They're saying we need to search your head.  I'm going to take my hand and feel your hair."

For a good night's rest!

"Ooh girl, who does your extensions?  These are good!"  

I told her.

"OK, you're fine, they thought you might be smuggling little pieces of metal in your hair," she said.  "What's that technique called again?"

Great, they were simultaneously searching me for explosives and complimenting me on my hair.  I'm proud to say that America is safe from any potential weave-bombers.  But then again, no promise of 72 virgins could ever convince a terrorist to endure that kind of pain.

But my hair looked good in the end!

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[1] And Reece’s Pieces, Minutemaid Light Lemonade, Caramel Frappucinos, Long Island Iced Teas, and Criminal Minds.

[2] Women in India cut off their hair in sacrifice to a God.  They leave it at the Temple and it makes its way onto my head.  By this logic, I am an Indian Goddess.  Believe it.

[3] Albeit one with spectacular hair.

[4] My previous two entries were, “Vagazzling” and “Paul Rudd,” so this was par for the course.

[5] They have found me passed out on the lawn before though, so this wouldn’t be too unusual.