Pondering Extensions?

My relationship with my hair can be summed up in one word: basic.

I wear my hair shoulder length, parted down the middle, with the two front pieces slightly bent inwards. I’ve kept the same deep brown color my mother gave to me at birth, and the most dramatic change I’ve ever made to it (pre-K bangs aside) was bleaching my tips in 2010.

The hair I admire, however, is often attached to women who’ve taken the pixie plunge, or those who’ve embraced nature and let it run wild. I’m jealous of the girls who’ve adopted the Lizzie McGuire approach: braids one day, pink curls the next. They’re as unpredictable my hair is boring. I envy hair with life. I told a woman I’d just met that her Afro was “so fucking cool!” (my expletive was edited); I cried over a platinum gray undercut and tried to place a red head friend’s locks over mine like a sticky-fingered child trying on her mother’s heels for the first time.

But that was as far as it went. Ultimately, I’d crawl back under the shoulder length, blah version of my security blanket.

Then came the 1970s resurgence. Along with the need for suede and bell bottoms came a follicle-driven craving for long hippie hair. The solution was obvious: take the dive, get extensions. I had doubts nonetheless.

Will long hair make me look younger than my current estimated age of 13? 

Can extensions set off the airport security alarm?

Will they fall off during an unprompted romp through a daisy field? 

Will the owner of the local deli I frequent rip one out during our inevitable scuffle over the price of Kombucha?

Will people look at me differently? Will they think I’m vain? 

Two weeks with these bad boys and I can tell you that the answer to all of the above is a resounding no.

I got my extensions applied by a Bumble and bumble specialist named Alan — a kind and patient man who assured me that so long as I consistently combed out my hair, it wouldn’t morph into a bird’s nest. He used tape to secure the natural hair between the extensions. Despite the adhesive, I was surprised at how weightless they were. I barely felt them when I touched the crown of my head.

Aside from having to blow dry my roots after showering, extension upkeep has proved to be relatively low-maintenance. You are strongly advised not to swim during the six to eight weeks that the extensions are meant to last, but I currently live in Antarctica. If the weather suddenly slips and a pool appears, however, I’d bust out a tankini and break a few school rules.

You’re encouraged to keep all oils and creams away from the roots where the extensions are secured, and it’s recommended to use a conditioning mask once a week on the ends. Easy.

The most obvious benefit of the extensions has been the length. These new, long tresses have remedied my prior lack of hair-flare, but what I’m most pleased with is the volume. I have this cool natural cowlick/swirl/and/or bald spot, and while the extra fluff doesn’t cover it, it’s a nice distraction.

Extensions are a luxury. They are expensive, temporary, and in my case, cosmetic. However, if Aunt Nora’s Christmas money has yet to run dry and you’ve been pondering the idea for a while, I say, treat yo’self. They will transport you to the 70s, add life to your locks, and make Lizzie McGuire’s hair chameleon antics a lot more doable.