My hair is curly. Very curly. It has
a style all of its own. I get my hair from my Dad. I have vivid memories of him
standing in the living room, in front of the big mirror above the television, combing
his short, curly, dark hair. It looked fine on him. But why did I have to
inherit it?
I hated my very curly, short and,
layered brown hair. It hasn’t always mouse coloured. There’s a photo of me aged
about two, with blond curls. “You look like Shirley Temple” Mum used to say.
“Look at those lovely ringlets.”
I didn’t want to look like Shirley Temple, I
didn’t want ringlets and I didn’t want short, layered, curly hair. The layers
made the curls even curlier. I wanted long, straight hair that would do as it
was told.
But no. Mum insisted I had it short. “It’s easier to manage,” she
said. “It looks lovely. People pay hundreds of pounds to have hair like yours.”
So what! I still didn’t want it. And worse than layers, I had a fringe. Curly hair gives a new meaning to the word fringe.
I was eleven before Mum stopped
insisting my hair was cut the way she thought it should be. So I grew the layers out and I brushed it to death to make it go as straight as it could.
Brushing
my hair made it go frizzy and big. I looked like Crystal Tipps from the cartoon
Crystal Tipps and Alistair. It looked all right on her. I’m not so sure about
me. But it was still better than short and super curly with little ringlets.
And big hair was ok. It was the 80s.
I still had the fringe though. I tried
to sweep it back, Diana style. It preferred parting in the centre and curling round to the middle. I
tried to grow it out but it would get so far and curl into my eyes. It irritated
me so much that I gave up, and had it trimmed to what to everybody else would
have been a sensible length. Not my hair. It sprung up, the curls got tighter
and it sat perched on the top of my forehead.
Then I travelled around Australia, found better things to spend my money on than hair
cuts and discovered Alice bands. The fringe grew. By the time I got home, a year later, it was level with
my chin. I had it cropped that length all the way round. No fringe made all the difference. I stopped hating my hair.
When I
began nursing, I started to grow it so I could tie it back. And, being a student, haircuts weren't high on my priority list. By the time I finished my training, it was down to my waist.
I had secretly always desired hair past my waist. But split ends extended halfway to the top and the only time I had any chance of unknotting it was when it had half a bottle of conditioner in it. So, even though I loved its length, I had about ten inches lobbed off, it sprung up another four and I
was back to a bob. Inside I cried, but it had become difficult to unknot. I was
qualified now; it was time for a fresh start.
Over the years I have learnt that the
best thing to do with my hair is nothing. Every so often I feel like a change,
but I dare not alter the style. I dye it different colours instead. It’s been
various shades of purple, pink, red or blonde. I let it grow as long as it will
allow me to, and I’ve learnt to embrace its wildness. I never use a brush and I
never use a hair dryer. Brushes and hair dryers are evil frizz creating machines.
And the ringlets? I like the ringlets
now. They’re long ringlets and I think they’re my hair’s best
feature.
