that crazy hair

An excerpt from Pools of Blessing

When I was a child my mother kept my hair short.  I don’t think she liked to mess with either my sister’s or my hair.  Consequently,  I never had those beautiful girlhood tresses hanging down my back like so many of my friends did.  Not only was our hair kept short, but it was also permed every three months. The outcome was anything but desirable.   Because my hair looked eerily similar to the character, Estelle’s, from the TV show, “The Golden Girls”, my husband, when he sees pictures of me from back then, refers to me as Stella.  And I have to say that minus the gray hair, he’s pretty much right.  The eighties were not good to me hair-wise. 

Mom not only kept our hair short, but she wore hers short as well.  Having thin, fine, hair Mom always seemed to struggle with how to fix it.  Every morning she painstakingly dried, curled, and combed her hair until it was, in her mind, at least presentable.  Sometimes I would watch her getting ready and think to myself, ‘Why is Mom so obsessed with how her hair looks?  Why can’t she just go out without all of the fuss?  Does she really think she’ll be judged if it’s not perfect?’

But sometimes the words you say, or in this case, think, have a way of coming back to bite you.  Because, ironically enough, I’ve always hated my hair, too.  Whether it’s cut short, or hangs long around my shoulders, worn up, or curled down, it never seems to be quite good enough.  Still I try.  I get my haircut and think, ‘Oh they fixed it so nicely, I can’t wait to get home and play with it.’  But inevitably, no matter how good the cut is, I can never make my hair look good enough.  Someone else always does it better. 

I never really understood all this drama over hair until, one day, Mom shared a story about her own mother.  Mom’s grandma, my great-grandma, Ella Pokorney, tended to be a stern, rigid person.  If something was done, then it needed to be done well.  Consequently, the year my grandma turned fourteen, Ella, her mother, began to take her to the beauty shop once a week to have her hair done.  Up to that point, Grandma had been an avid and enthusiastic swimmer, but from then on she was forbidden to swim or participate in any “sweaty activities”. 

After that my grandmother never washed or “did up” her own hair.  As an adult, she would visit her favorite beautician, Jewel Chappell, once a week on Fridays with an appointment scheduled for 4:00pm. 

Mind you now, this is all a theory, but doesn’t it seem a little crazy to you that we all, my great-grandmother, grandmother, mother and I have been so obsessed with our hair?   It’s like the “I hate my hair gene” has been passed down through the generations.  And, sad to say, this gene lives on brilliantly in me.   My hair hangs down to my shoulders, but even now I am considering cutting it short.  It just doesn’t look good enough.  It’s not perfectly perfect. 

Sadder still, I keep my little girl’s hair short too.  I don’t want to have to fix long hair because I feel so inept at fixing my own.   Yes, the “I hate my hair” gene is alive and well in me. 

But, as I write this it occurs to me that someone needs to stop the madness.   Maybe that somebody needs to be me.  There is a sane part of me that’s learned  this; sometimes you need to do things for the pure pleasure of trying.  Failure isn’t something to be avoided at all costs, it’s a stepping stone to learning how to do things well.  If perfection isn’t achieved, that’s ok.  The process is more important than the outcome.  

So, for my daughter’s sake, and the sake of my granddaughters and great-granddaughters to come, I will bring an end to this vicious cycle.  I will let my daughter grow her hair long if she wishes.  Even now, while her hair is chin length, I practice by putting bows and ribbons in it.  Perfect or not, I have to try.  I have to learn to let my hair down a bit.  No pun intended.