My hair is half-ass curly. Normally that means wavy, but seriously, it isn’t really wavy- those curls try very hard, especially in the back. The humidity and my lack of curly hair prowess means that my curls dry out and loosen into waves sooner or later, but if you’ve ever seen it wet or on a good day, the curls are undeniable.
R and my hairdresser W are always chirping at me about the flat iron. R tells me all the time I should straighten my hair (she also tells me all the time that I am too loud and off color in public). Just in general sometimes, but mostly for special events. I don’t know that I’ve ever paid W a visit wherein she has not taken the flat iron to some section of my hair- this last time it was the long bangs she cut in (the point of which is to soften the librarian effect I get when I so often pull the mane into a ponytail or bun). These girls all but chase after me with the damn thing, waving it and beckoning me to sit and straighten.
I never do it. Well, I did it once. I have a flat iron. I have a curling iron. I have a hairdryer. I cannot remember the last time I used any of them.
It isn’t that I don’t care about my hair. To the contrary, I am always on the lookout for a new trick or product to define and retain my curls, and when the mane misbehaves, I bemoan my defeat as I pull a ponytail holder out of my purse and pile it on top of my head.
There is a very specific reason that I never take the flat iron to my half-ass curly mane.
I love my hair. Even when I hate it, I love it still. It’s a part of me, it’s a portrayal (and a pretty accurate one) of my personality. Sometimes it falls right into place, sometimes it’s wild and unmanageable. It does as it pleases, it looks at my silicone smoothers and my curl defining milks and laughs heartily; it goes on about its business as if I never even tried to tame it.
Using a hairdryer to blow it out, using a flat iron to straighten it, even using a curling iron to cheat on the sides where the curls fall first is just too much trouble. Causes too much damage. Makes my arms hurt. Takes too much time. I don’t even like the way it looks, really. It doesn’t look bad, but whenever I let someone take the flat iron to it, I always count the hours until I can wash it and bring back my difficult, naughty, haphazard curls.
Spending all that time and energy to fool the world into thinking I’m shiny and manageable and always fall perfectly into place just isn’t worth the effort. Especially if the truth comes out with one good washing. Better to just be honest, even if that means being messy and untamed, even if that means constantly falling short of perfect curls and ending up wild and undefinable.
April 15, 2010 4 Comments