Since I was born, I’ve had stick straight hair. So much so that my Mother was beside herself not knowing what to do with my ‘do when I was a munchkin. As a smiley toddler, my hair grew slowly and supremely uncurled, so it stuck straight up from my head in every possible direction. Hence my nickname of “The Dynamite Kid” actually made sense. The pictures of me were just hilarious, however, Mom did rely on hats so I did not to frighten the other kids. (Good thinkin!) When I was a bit older, my Mom used barrettes, ponytails, and deep side parts to control my disobedient locks.
As a tween, finally in charge of my own mop, I found aid with blow dryers, curling irons, curling brushes, mousse, gel, and a shit ton of hairspray. But the moment even one drop of precipitation would fall, or the evil humidity would creep above the dreaded 60%, my well-maintained coif was history. My teenage years seemed better. (At the time!) Looking back on those pics it’s just comedy in motion– those back-to-back perms literally gave my perpetually flat strands a twisted bounce with an insane amount of body and curl. However everyone failed to mention that I looked like I had just stuck my wet finger into an electrical socket. Wowza. I definitely had the big 80s fro going on! I loved it.
All throughout the rest of college and adulthood, I’ve searched for the perfect style, dabbled with bangs, only to grow them out again while I favored headbands, and then went screaming back to the forehead fringe. When I returned to bangs, I did not know how I lived without them. I’ve come to rely on hats to get me through the warm humid days by avoiding a style altogether. I’ve even amassed a small collection of fashion hats I used to sport at work, much to the dismay of my ultra conservative bosses. (Sorry not sorry.)
And then about a year ago the craziest thing happened. I noticed a small bend in my forever militantly straight tresses. But how could this have been my mane when I’d had pin straight split ends for the entirety of my life? Maybe this is the trade off in middle age– my hair now has built-in body, but I unconsciously make a horrific noise hoisting myself out of a sunken chair. Isn’t getting older just a riot? I’m still getting used to the “scrunching” method of drying it when I let it go “curly.” I find it odd to look at myself in a mirror when I see the unironed fluff looking back at me. It’s not the gorgeous spirals I’ve wanted my whole life, but hey, I’m extremely happy to settle for a little wave.
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