I was busy today, but none of what I did was interesting enough to write about, so I thought it was time for one of those random subjects I've saved up to write about. In this case, hair.
I've always had a tangled relationship with my hair. See, my mother has hair of a perfectly reasonable texture - wavy, but not really curly, neither too thin nor too thick. That it's a boring mousy brown color is more easily correctable. But she didn't think about the potential genetic implications on a daughter when she married my father, whose hair was best described as falling into the "Jewish afro" category. My brother ended up with Mom's hair, though his is darker brown. I, alas, was saddled with Dad's curls.
As a child, that meant these rather silly very short haircuts. Pixie. Feather cut. Anything that wasn't super short was regarded as sloppy and unmanageable. I wanted to be Marcia Brady and kept being given the housekeeper, Alice's, styles. (There's an anacronism here, but you get the idea.)
I'm not sure quite when I let it grow, but it was in time for the total indignity of having thick curly hair in the 1970's era of stick straight curtains hanging limply on each side of the face. I tried all the tricks. Using giant orange juice cans as rollers was completely ineffective. The "wrap it around your head" method (which amounts to about the largest roller you could possibly use) worked somewhat better, but the effect wore off in a day or two. Or, if it was humid out, in hours. Ironing was awkward, especially if your parents had forbidden you to do it, forcing one to sneak the ironing board and iron out of the closet when they weren't home. The best results came from the chemical straighteners, but they destroyed the texture too, leaving perfectly straight but vaguely rubbery strands.
There were also pigtails and braids somewhere in there. About all I remember of that was the constant debate over whether you would permanently damage your hair if you used ordinary rubber bands to hold them. Oh, there were also these bright ribbons tied at the ends of braids. At six, I'd have preferred that to yet another pixie cut. But it doesn't work as a look once you're over 5 feet tall. And it really doesn't look right once your chest develops.
Through my 20's and 30's, I alternated long and short, letting it grow out when I got lazy and getting it all clipped when I thought it looked too shaggy or too unsophisticated or too whatever. For a while, I cut it all very short myself, using nail scissors, because I'd read that was something every woman should try at least once to see if she could get away with it and save lots of money. The truth is that anybody who reads that should take out those little nail scissors and clip away at whatever stupid women's magazine article is suggesting she cut her own hair.
Often, there was mousse involved. The best approach in the short days was the "hide it all under a hat and just let some cute little curls peek out in the front." You can tuck your hair under a hat when it's long, too, but you have to pin it up first and that usually means you need a bigger hat.
I haven't even mentioned the whole issue of color. Let's just say that it is probably not a brilliant idea to get burgundy cellophane done immediately before having a color passport photo taken. Temporary color is more successful, but it is also wise to wash out all of the bright purple stuff before Monday morning if you work in a conservative environment.
I've kept my hair long for now, partly from laziness, partly from fear of what hairdressers might talk me into if I got it cut. And, boringly, I usually just clip it back so it isn't in my way. If I get dressed up, I use enough mousse or gel to scrunch it into some resemblance of fashionable curls instead of sloppy curls. But that also causes the texture problem. And men do love thick curly hair. Okay, maybe not all men, but the good ones do. And I'm pretty sure Robert prefers soft and thick, albeit sloppy, to magazine perfect but slightly sticky.
I'm at peace with my hair most of the time. Though I'm reaching the point where the claim to have blonde highlights is giving way to the realities of them being awfully grey...
Copyright 2006 Miriam H. Nadel