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