Mes Cheveux
"Never [cut] your [hair], and [it] will soon become unlimited."
- Jean Jacques Rousseau
Since the moment of my birth, my hair has given me trouble. I was born completely bald and stayed that way through my second birthday. My mother, with a head full of curls, was understandably perplexed. Though he had already started to lose his hair, my father felt the same way. After all, this is a man who was the bass player for a 60s band called The Mohairs, because they had mo' hair than anyone else. How could their collective child be bald?
Once my meager hair began to come in, it was mousy brown and stick straight - the kind of straight that sort of globs together in clumpy, stringy strands, never falling in a shiny cascade like in the Pantene commercials. As a result, I spent most of my youth either in rollers or in the process of removing them. I remember my mother's disappointed face each time as the hairstyle she'd worked so hard to achieve fell right out of my stick straight hair. "Don't bounce," she would say through clenched teeth. No matter how still I was or how smoothly I walked, my hair would wilt like week-old roses.
When I did the pageants, I was onstage for only 5 or 10 minutes at a time during each portion of the competition, so I usually had ample opportunity to return to the dressing room and fix my wilting, hairsprayed disaster zone. My first ever panic attack was hair-related, and it happened the night before the interview preliminaries. I was crumpled on the cool tile floor of the hotel bathroom, sobbing my heart out because I could not decide whether I should re-dye my hair before the interview competition, or wait until the next night so that it would be freshly dyed for finals. Everything was slipping through my fingers - the competition, my sense of self, my sanity. I wound up dying my hair that night through tears and snot and puffy, bleary eyes. I didn't win the pageant that year. I didn't even make top 15.
I began my addiction to hair dye when I was thirteen years old, and it continued straight on through college. For most of those years, I was some version of a redhead. In my father's mind, I am forever fifteen years old, tall and lanky, with long, red hair (with fake curls at the bottom, of course). I think this is why he was so traumatized when my mother took me to Vidal Sassoon for my first real haircut before going off to college. I got the classic Sassoon cut, but without the bangs. Mom and I came home, and my father just looked at me, shook his head, and walked away. Then I dyed my hair black, and started packing my bags to leave him and my mother. I think it really was a cathartic moment in our relationship, as he switched modes from bossy you'll do what I want when I want it dad to needy, guilt-tripping dad. To rub salt in the wound, my freshman year of college I dyed my hair every color of the Manic Panic rainbow - sometimes several at once.
To this day, I get a meaningful look from my father every time I cut my hair, as though it is a personal affront to him. With every trim I get we are farther apart, and yet the older I get the more I learn to hold him close. After all, he may not be around for my next haircut, as his eyes seem to remind me every time we see each other.
I am getting a haircut on Saturday, despite the fact that I will be seeing my parents for Thanksgiving less than a week from now. This 1/3 blonde, 2/3 brown skunk look I'm presently rocking has outstayed its welcome. I can't wait to hear what dad won't say about it.
- Jean Jacques Rousseau
Since the moment of my birth, my hair has given me trouble. I was born completely bald and stayed that way through my second birthday. My mother, with a head full of curls, was understandably perplexed. Though he had already started to lose his hair, my father felt the same way. After all, this is a man who was the bass player for a 60s band called The Mohairs, because they had mo' hair than anyone else. How could their collective child be bald?
Once my meager hair began to come in, it was mousy brown and stick straight - the kind of straight that sort of globs together in clumpy, stringy strands, never falling in a shiny cascade like in the Pantene commercials. As a result, I spent most of my youth either in rollers or in the process of removing them. I remember my mother's disappointed face each time as the hairstyle she'd worked so hard to achieve fell right out of my stick straight hair. "Don't bounce," she would say through clenched teeth. No matter how still I was or how smoothly I walked, my hair would wilt like week-old roses.
When I did the pageants, I was onstage for only 5 or 10 minutes at a time during each portion of the competition, so I usually had ample opportunity to return to the dressing room and fix my wilting, hairsprayed disaster zone. My first ever panic attack was hair-related, and it happened the night before the interview preliminaries. I was crumpled on the cool tile floor of the hotel bathroom, sobbing my heart out because I could not decide whether I should re-dye my hair before the interview competition, or wait until the next night so that it would be freshly dyed for finals. Everything was slipping through my fingers - the competition, my sense of self, my sanity. I wound up dying my hair that night through tears and snot and puffy, bleary eyes. I didn't win the pageant that year. I didn't even make top 15.
I began my addiction to hair dye when I was thirteen years old, and it continued straight on through college. For most of those years, I was some version of a redhead. In my father's mind, I am forever fifteen years old, tall and lanky, with long, red hair (with fake curls at the bottom, of course). I think this is why he was so traumatized when my mother took me to Vidal Sassoon for my first real haircut before going off to college. I got the classic Sassoon cut, but without the bangs. Mom and I came home, and my father just looked at me, shook his head, and walked away. Then I dyed my hair black, and started packing my bags to leave him and my mother. I think it really was a cathartic moment in our relationship, as he switched modes from bossy you'll do what I want when I want it dad to needy, guilt-tripping dad. To rub salt in the wound, my freshman year of college I dyed my hair every color of the Manic Panic rainbow - sometimes several at once.
To this day, I get a meaningful look from my father every time I cut my hair, as though it is a personal affront to him. With every trim I get we are farther apart, and yet the older I get the more I learn to hold him close. After all, he may not be around for my next haircut, as his eyes seem to remind me every time we see each other.
I am getting a haircut on Saturday, despite the fact that I will be seeing my parents for Thanksgiving less than a week from now. This 1/3 blonde, 2/3 brown skunk look I'm presently rocking has outstayed its welcome. I can't wait to hear what dad won't say about it.
posted by Liz at 5:42 PM
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