One protruding curl adorned her head till two,
Uncaringly, she waddled with her swaying blonde lock,
A baby girl too busy with dolls and cradles
to be held hostage by curls.
Four years later she received twenty-four homemade ringlets by mom,
But its then she noticed...
Her friends had long, straight, shiny locks of perfection
She wanted that, but hers curled !!
So began the days of scotched taped bangs and blow dryers.
It was time to straighten her life out.
Other girls had bouncing hair without a single wrinkle, without a zig, without effort.
But her hair became a masterpiece canvass of trial and error.
However, the magic words, "How To Straighten Your Hair"
written in a Blow-Dryer-Manual-To-Idealism,
would become her ticket to conformity.
It worked.
Wow, her curls transformed into streaming stands of shining fullness
Farah hair, incredible Farah hair.
Now the lioness of straightness was Queen.
Except when it rained.
Perfect hair was a task only for the willing.
Swimming became a chronically planned de-curling event.
"The bad hair weekend", also known as "Camping", was
a militaristic regiment of self nurturing for the hair flawed.
She could not show her corkscrewed inadequacy in its nakedness. Not Ever.
Campfire sing songs by angelic girls and their bouncing mounds of straight,
flat, free-swaying weather resistant quaffs of silk
made her project of fulfillment a mission for the mentally trained.
Ready to securely paste her frizz mountain to her head, she always came
equipped with camping's mandatory primary tools, "elastic bands".
Backpacking through Europe was no match for the disciplined straightener.
Dual powered blow dryers, multi-colored elastics, back-up cream-rinse, and
lastly the most coveted travel tool known to mankind, the electrical adaptor.
You see, she was the General Extraordinaire of Straight Hair and she knew it.
Nothing, not one single thing could prevent The Straight Hair Plan from being executed.
The births of four sons required carefully packed hospital bags.
Days of one hundred percent humidity, also known as 'Mission-Prevent-Insanity',
were only a challenge for the bald.
She witnessed others with defective hair
holding a secret desire to straighten out there lives too.
She knew, Straight Hair was at the root of all problems.
And then it happened.
The unthinkable.
The event that could not be forecast.
The most unpredictable moment in her history.
After 46 years of never failing herself,
she had forgotten to elasticize her mound of glitches after swimming.
Side tracked like she had never been, her hair dried:
On its own. without any tools of chore.
As her husband approached, mouth hanging open like a feeding trout,
he blurted, "Your Hair Hon!, I like it, it looks great"
The Hair General was weak kneed. Ready to fall.
Eyes tightly closed, she courageously headed towards her reflection,
Before plunging into truth,
she cautiously peeked through the corner of her right eye,
With her mouth hanging open like a feeding trout,
her brain processed what must have been,
1000 twisted zags of reality.
This wasn't for the faint of heart, but the General could do it. She knew it.
She forced both eyes open into a stare that lasted 46 years for one second.
She gently touched her sheep head, feeling each kink, for the very first time.
Her swirls had never been left to their own devices. Never.
She was witnessing a first.
Now you can look in the top left hand side of her dresser,
Among her keepsakes sits a dusty blow dryer and a perfectly good flat iron.
From time to time she reflectively looks in on them.
She even ponders their use again someday.
But she has discovered something so cutting edge it holds her back:
She cannot go back to who she is not.
Her individuality, her confidence, her smile, her soul,
her giving nature is what makes her beautiful.
She is her own person, and she appreciates, for the first time in her life,
that Curls don't make or break the girl.
Today she rinses, repeats, applies leave in conditioner, muffles her curlicues,
looks into the mirror and knows who she is:
A grown woman, the lioness of curly, the embracer of self,
too busy to be held hostage by curls. |
