MY FERRY HAIR

Isles of Shoals are a group of islands and rocky outcroppings off of the coast of Portsmouth, New Hampshire, and owned via an invisible line down the middle-ish by both New Hampshire and Maine. 

To get out there and see them, a boat is necessary, so I hop the ferry with my sister and one of my nieces. The boat ride is about an hour long, approximately six miles.  When the ferry leaves Portsmouth, my hair is picture-perfect -- or as manageable as it can be with high humidity and searing heat.  (Okay, I brushed it.  Are we all happy now?)

Halfway to the islands, the air changes.  The temperature is fabulous: cool, breezy, and refreshing.  Compared to the instant sunburn conditions we left behind twenty minutes prior, my relatives and I are thinking we probably should have brought sweatshirts.  Really, though:  We've been at this before.  My niece worked on a research vessel out of Mystic Seaport.  My sister and I have been ferry riders for as long as we can remember: Fire Island, Block Island, Nantucket, Martha's Vineyard, Peak's Island ... We all live on or near the ocean and lakes; what else would we do for entertainment?

Forty minutes into our ferry trip, I decide to take a potty break.  A woman is exiting the bathroom as I am waiting to enter, and she looks at me strangely then grins a little.  Okay, I think, that's polite; potty pleasantries, ya know?.

Until, of course, I look in the mirror.

HOLY MOTHER OF DON KING!  My hair is standing completely on end.  I look like a clown, or maybe Phyllis Diller on a bad day, or Carrot Top on any day, or Larry Fine when he's super-surprised by Moe or Curly (but not Shemp because no one likes Shemp).

My hair is about as far from my scalp and in as many different directions as may be humanly possible, perhaps even inhumanly possible.  I attempt to tame it down to no avail.  The wind and the salt and the sea spray have combined to make tiny cement out of each and every follicle.  I pat it down with water and it literally makes that cartoon SPROI-YOY-YOY-YOY-YOINGGGGG sound as it screeches right back toward Don King status.

Later, on the island, I take a selfie just to see if my hair is still as bad as on the ferry.  It's close; damn close.  But, it's also quite fascinating in an "I see a train wreck and cannot pry my eyes off it all" kind of way.  I position the ocean (pretty much everywhere -- we're on an island, right?) behind me and snap the photo.

When I see what nature's jokesters have wrought, I create a colorful montage and post it to social media.  It reminds me of the trip to Hartford weeks ago when I saw several Andy Warhol pieces, including a self-portrait and a montage of Marilyn Monroe.  Well, I'm closer to Warhol than I'll ever be to Monroe (that includes the hairdo), so I submit my photo evidence.

Ladies and gents, I give you My Ferry Hair (not to be confused with Mon derriere), my pop art homage to Warhol, and a reminder that growing hair out is a total bitch but can also be remarkably hysterical.