I have always been obsessed with people’s hair, perhaps because I’m convinced there is a connection between a person’s hair and how that person defines him or herself. Growing up, each girl in my classes had different hair. Some had blonde, dark brown, light brown. Chocolate-colored, caramel-colored, the shade of fire and the shade of straw. Some had long hair, pouring down their backs like a waterfall; some had short Tinkerbell pixie cuts. Some had short hair chopped off at the chin or at the shoulders. The only similarity was that every girl had straight hair. Everyone … except one.
When Iowa’s atmosphere turns heavy and humid and anything moveable begins to react to the sauna that is summer in the Midwest, my hair balloons into a giant tent around my head. It takes on a life of its own, and I’ll always remember an acquaintance’s comment, “Your hair is eating your head!” On rainy days and through the summers, I could always feel my self-confidence plummeting as my hair rose. Why couldn’t I just have straight hair like all the normal girls?
College is an amazing thing. In some ways it forces and in other ways it allows you to become yourself. I spent years of my childhood fighting Mother Nature armed only with a hairdryer, a straightener, and FrizzEase (thank you, John Frieda!) Nights spent out and about with friends in college proved that early morning wake-up call was just too early, and an amazing thing happened: I stopped straightening my hair.
My friends began to call me Pigpen due to the state of frizz and curls and general chaos my hair is in upon wakening every morning and although I tried to fix this, nothing worked. (Pulling it into a ponytail only makes the shorter hairs fall out and stick straight up). At first I was embarrassed by my general state, but then I gradually came to terms with it.
Slowly but surely I began to wear it curly everyday—not just on mornings I woke up late. And slowly but surely I began to (gasp!) like it. Four years later and I can’t even remember the last time I wore my hair straight. Now when it gets curly, I point it out and laugh at myself. I buy myself Pigpen T-shirts and egg on the jokes.
This is only one of my many unwelcome qualities, and not to say it’s gone—I still have bad hair days. Some days, I wake up and look in the mirror, shriek, and still want to run and hide under the covers. The difference is what I saw as a curse when I was a kid is now something I allow myself to feel good about. Now instead of hiding under the covers or repressing with a straightener, I force myself to look in the mirror. And smile. And face the undesirable qualities. They are what make me me. And somehow, by the end of the day, those characteristics become personally distinctive and are almost … yes, appreciated.
