My father had gorgeous hair. It was thick and wavy and dark brown and all around amazing. Both of my sisters inherited these luscious locks. But me? Thin little mane. My mom also has very thin hair, and somehow, the middle sister (moi) inherited those genes while the other two look like they could star in a Pantene commercial. My ponytail has the diameter of a pencil, and braiding it makes me look like I’m about four and half years old. I do what I can with it, I volumize, I blow dry it, I’ve learned to live with it. Looking at the family tree, this all makes sense. I got mom’s mane, while the other two took after dad.
But if you ask my darling 94-year-old grandmother who I absolutely love to bits, it’s “the dia-bee-tus” that causes my thin hair.
A recent phone call went like this:
Grandma: “Lexie dear, a friend of mine whose daughter is a hairdresser gave me the name of a shampoo to use for people with your condition…”
Me: “Um, my condition? Do I have a hair condition?”
Grandma: “No for dia-bee-tus. It causes you to have thin hair you know.”
Me (trying to stifle my laughter): “Oh I didn’t know that Grandma. Thanks for letting me know…”
Grandma: “Yep. Thin hair from your dia-bee-tus. Anyways there’s a special shampoo to help you with that, it’s for people with dia-bee-tus and I’m going to send you the name of it.”
Me: “Thanks Grandma, I really appreciate you looking out for me.”
What can you do? She’s 94. I’m not about to correct a 94-year-old on anything these days. She’s earned the right to have her opinion on whatever at this point. No matter how bizarre the idea