TSP SISTER MARION IS NOT the only one who’s got Oscars, and Oscar hairstyles, on the brain. The impending threat of a weekend of red-carpet coverage of a zillion visions of celebrity loveliness has me thinking, too, about yes, my hair. My hair, it seems, is a metaphor for grown-up life, which is messy and unpredictable and full of twists and turns.
The truth is, I pretty much never stop thinking about my hair (or my thighs, but that’s another post for another day). When I was say 4, or even 7, my hair was straight, and thick, light brown with blond streaks. It was, if I can say this about myself, really beautiful. I didn’t appreciate it, though I did love having my mother brush it every morning, even when it snarled and knotted, and she had to placate my squeals with stories of the Tangle Elf, a mischievous, hair-disheveling creature who continues to strike little girls, at least in my family.
Then teenager-dom started. By the spring of my freshman year of high school, something was different about my hair, different and confounding enough that I began always wearing my still-long tresses pulled back in a ponytail. One small section, on the very back of my head, had begun to curl. It didn’t occur to me then, but now, the culprit’s pretty clear: puberty. (DAMN those crazy hormones.)
By college, my whole head was wavy, and to cope, I’d cut my hair very, very short. My boyfriend at the time kindly (and ignorantly) suggested that the haircut made me look like a lesbian. (Come on. Really? It was a long time ago, long before Portia and Ellen, and he was only 17, so we’ll cut him a tiny bit of slack. But not much.) I grew my hair out during college and discovered, to my horror, that the waves had only grown thicker and coarser over time, and so the ponytail returned. (Remember that passport pictures review? At 23, I was firmly in the ponytail era.) Also, the streaks had evaporated. I tried to bring them back to life, artificially, but the highlights, guess what, made the coarse hair coarser.
By the time I moved to California, I was pretty much a mess. My hair was long, and big, and I struggled to tame it with the aid of infomercial hair care products. (They were actually quiet good. Much to my roommates’ amusement, I was addicted for years.) The California climate helped a bit, too, and I swore to myself I’d never move back to the land of humidity.
Improbably, my now-husband fell in love with me in spite of my hair. But he’s an improver, and so he made some gentle suggestions. Thanks to him, I became a redhead, which I’ve been now for nearly 15 years. But the curls just kept coming. Waves turned into kinks turned into corkscrews. By now I realized that with some serious arm strength, a good brush, and a blow dryer, I could have straight hair, if only until the next shampoo. But as I planned my wedding, I decided my hair on the big day would be curly. So, naturally, my hairdresser blew it out straight, and then recurled it lock by lock. As I knew all too well, but hated to admit, this was the only way to ensure perfect, neat, ringlets. They looked great in the pictures, and were gone by the next day.
I had a semi-fancy corporate job, and I was supposed to look polished. High-volume curls are generally not considered polished. So I took a similarly endowed girlfriend’s advice, and had my hair chemically straightened. Suddenly, I could do that thing you see in hair commercials where you bend over at the waist, roll a blow dryer around your head in a few tight circles, stand up, give a little head toss, and watch your sleek hair neatly fall to your shoulders, shiny and ready for action.
I kind of loved it. But then, the growing-out was kind of a bitch. And every time I had it done, it cost me hundreds of dollars and five hours. Besides, I couldn’t do it while pregnant, and once my kids were born, I couldn’t do it because–-where was I going to get five hours to myself? (And if I did get five straight hours alone, heaven knows I wasn’t going to spend it sitting around with goop on my head.)
I’m back now to my curls, which every year seem to get curlier. They’re still red, thanks to my lovely stylist. (When people compliment my hair color, I always say, “It could be yours!”) In the summer, when the humidity makes them impossible, you’re likely to see them pulled back or piled up haphazardly. Definitely not corporate, nor red-carpet ready. But I’ve finally figured out that when I want to go sleek, I can get a blow dry. I can make it last for a day or three, and feel, if not quite like a movie star, then at least like someone who’s pulled it all together. And then, like Cinderella post-midnight, I have to wash the blow dry away, and return to my normal stepsister tresses.
But every once in a while, like those visions of loveliness walking down Hollywood’s red carpets, everything falls into place.
(Thanks to beautifulhairstyles.com for the image of the lovely straight-haired red head above.)
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Gasp! I thought I was alone in the I-used-to-have-fine-straight-hair-what-ever-became-of-that?-club — and I was just thinking of it this morning when my 13-year-old laughed uproariously at my bedhead and said (in a condescending tone that only a 13-year-old girl can master) “Look in the mirror — your hair” I almost told little-she-of-the-fine-straight-hair — “Yeah, you’ll get yours” but I didn’t want to send her into tears right before school….
I never did the chemical thing — but I do like my flat iron.
The 13-year-old had a slumber party last weekend, and I believe there must be a lesson for us somewhere from her lair. Hours before the big middle school dance, I discovered the girl with THE most beautiful head of curls (think Bernadette Peters) hard at work with her flat iron. Meanwhile, the girls with shiny straight hair (including my child) were using curling irons, hot rollers and hairspray. sigh.
Paige – what power we give to our hair!
My hair was short as a kid – my mom said it flattered my face, which I think was mom-speak for ‘I don’t want to deal with the tangles.’ Always dark red-brown. In my teens I let it grow – down to my shoulders, down to my waist, just down. Some years I never cut it.
It was thick, wavy, heavy and it grew really fast. I *never* blew it dry because, as you mention, who has five hours and besides, I had better things to do. I was famous for my collection of crazy unique hair ornaments. I did the ponytail, but more often chose the carelessly-piled-up look accented with things like antique chopsticks – the late 70s and 80s loved big hair.
And then one day on a lunch break with a friend, I walked into a mall hair salon, picked a stylist whose hair I liked, and told her – I want a new look. I have five minutes in the morning, so no mousse, no color, no perm. Work your magic. My co-worker was aghast but I knew if I hated it, it would grow so fast it would look different in three weeks.
Renee has been cutting my hair for about 20 years, ever since that Saturday afternoon. Like my mom, she wants it short. She wants to color it (it’s dark brown-gray now and the red highlights are about gone.) She’s been there through awards banquets, new looks, unfortunate contact with candles around a hot tub (!), and chemo. And tomorrow, she’s going to gasp when she sees me – ’cause it’s back down to my shoulders after being chemo-short for so long. I never lost (all) my hair, although it got kinda thin. Now it’s not as coarse, but more curly, and everyone says how great it looks long. So tomorrow, she’ll want me to go short. But I’m ready for it to be long again, so I want her magic to keep it somewhere just above my shoulders. So I can break out those antique chopsticks and pile it up again.
Wish me luck. ;)