M

y mother comes from a family 

of blonde Irish Catholics with 

smooth, compliant hair. Maybe 

she was blindsided by the delicate way 

my curls framed my head as a toddler, soft 

ringlets that formed a gentle puff of yellow 

around my head. It would become clear that 

I inherited the Jewish father’s hair: frizzy, 

twisted locks, thick and prone to expanding 

upon contact.

It’s not her fault that my mom didn’t know 

the rules of curly hair. She would brush it 

out, often resulting in abundant static and 

the dreaded “yield sign” effect christened by 

Mia Thermopolis of “The Princess Diaries.” 

I spent ages 4 to 7 with puffy bangs, and 

in a third-grade picture I wore an orange 

athletic sweatband as a fashion (?) accessory, 

brandishing a full Tweety Bird forehead and 

a sea of cowlicks parted down the middle.

When I was young, my hair frustrated 

me. My sister and I would cry when it got 

combed out. I envied my cousins’ pale blonde 

hair, cascading over their shoulders and 

swishing around their bodies when they 

walked. At infrequent haircuts I would tell 

the hairdresser that I didn’t want my hair 

to make me look like a triangle anymore, to 

which she would laugh and promise that 

things called “long layers” and “product” 

would solve those woes.

When she was done I would climb down 

from the chair, smile and thank her politely, 

feeling even more triangular than before.

During tweenhood a lot of curly girls I 

knew took to their straighteners, opting 

for sleek and flattened looks, especially for 

special occasions, and this left me torn. I 

grew up with other curly-haired women 

who praised costly chemical treatments and 

straightened their hair so frequently that it 

was hardly curly anymore. There was nothing 

wrong with this, but I knew deep down that 

process was time-consuming, and I was not 

patient enough. I knew deeper down that 

my curly hair was maybe a marker of my 

Jewishness. For me, straightening my hair 

was an attempt to make something different 

about me disappear.

When I was a shy 14-year-old, a boy 

I thought was cute touched my hair 

unexpectedly. I was flustered and flattered at 

first. Then he continued: “It’s so … coarse.” 

I blushed and shrugged it off without saying 

anything, but vowed to condition religiously, 

focusing on the ends. Nobody was going to 

call my hair coarse again, especially 

not cute boys. I grew more and more 

self-conscious of having hair that 

was 
unpredictable 
and 
somehow 

“different” — it felt like it was always 

taking up too much space, too much 

time or shedding onto someone’s 

carpet.

There have only been a few times 

I’ve had my hair straightened — the 

lengthy process takes up to two hours. 

When someone asks if I like my hair 

straight, I’m not even sure how to 

respond. I like the way it feels when it 

brushes against my shoulders. I like it 

the way I like a pet: The sleekness and 

smooth silky texture is all right for a 

night, but it has never been worth the 

effort for me.

I could tell them I seem to get more 

male attention with straight hair. Even 

friends have paused to say, “Maria, you 

look … different,” and something in 

the pause seems to be something of an 

admiration I didn’t know could exist. I 

could tell those who ask that it makes 

me look nothing like myself.

As I get older, I’ve started to make 

peace with my hair. I avoid brushes 

at all costs, and swear by minimal 

shampoo and maximum moisture. I 

like that I can be easily picked out of a 

crowd by it, and I like it as an accessory 

to my sub-par dance moves. People, even 

the occasional stranger sometimes, say nice 

things about my curly hair, and I don’t really 

know how to feel about it — I usually blush.

In “Paradise Lost,” Milton rewrites Adam 

and Eve, going into detail about Eve’s hair, 

a tangled mess that is somehow enticing and 

intoxicating. Milton describes her hair as 

“wanton” even, which suggests that Eve’s 

untamable mane is just one of the things that 

contributes to the babeliness that makes Adam 

want to kiss her and eat the fruit and disobey 

God and all that wild stuff. Amid objectively 

sexist 
undertones 
of 
women 
as 
mere 

promiscuous objects of the male gaze, I admit 

that I found the characterization somehow 

humorous, comforting and unnerving. What 

if this frizzy brown mess could be the seat of 

power?

This is not to say that I don’t sometimes wish 

for frizz-free hair that looks like a Pantene ad, 

or hair that would take nicely to all of these hip 

shoulder-brushing cuts so many of my friends 

have been getting, but I do think there is 

something more than hair here. For example, 

that boy who touched my hair without asking 

and said it felt “coarse” is definitely a jerk, and 

I can’t help but hope the tragic poofy bangs 

made me a little tougher on the inside.

Part of me wants to hold on to a complicated 

story I’ve let my hair tell, but another part 

wants to say, “it’s just hair, it doesn’t have to 

mean anything.” Couldn’t I just shave it off 

or ignore it or write about something more 

important?

In asking these questions, I resist the urge 

to let something as superficial and arbitrary as 

a collection of dead cells define me, yet maybe 

that choice isn’t even one that is up to me. I 

can’t ignore the fact that I have been exposed 

to constructions of female beauty that come 

in sleek and uncomplicated packages.

I joked to a curly-headed friend of mine a 

few weeks ago that our curly hair drew us to 

all things cozy — fluffy blankets, snuggling, 

semi-sloppy clothing, small animals. But it’s 

not even about texture. Maybe it’s the freedom 

that comes with letting something just be, in 

all its messiness and unpredictability.

I don’t mean to paint this as a picture of a 

purely “chill” girl who has come to complete 

peace with all parts of herself. Though I no 

longer have crippling fear of triangle head 

(and if you have a negative comment on my 

hair, I have cultivated some choice words 

for you), I still think that such in-depth 

contemplation and anxiety on something 

superficial is strange in a way I can’t seem to 

shake.

It continues to vacillate between feelings of 

importance and unimportance. It continues 

to contain the pieces of my parents, and their 

parents. My hair continues to take up space 

— to frizz, to tangle, to shed and to grow. My 

hope in all this tangly mess is to only do the 

same.

Wednesday, January 11, 2017 // The Statement
6B

by Maria Robins-Somerville, Daily Arts Writer

Personal Statement: 
Story of a Curl

ILLUSTRATION BY CLAIRE ABDO

