By Riot Trrrt
Posted on Tuesday, July 11th, 2016
“You should do that all of the time!
“You’d only have to do it every three days, and it would look so good!”
“It looks so normal!”
“It’s so much better this way!”
That day, something inside of me changed. I had spent 17 years of my life being someone with curly hair. Whether I liked it or not, I had hair that was different, and it was mine. Yes, I looked different than normal when my hair was straight. Telling me that I needed to look different than myself as the norm was so insulting, and they didn’t even realize it. For years, I had accepted their insults as the natural order. It made sense to insult curly hair, because hair should it be straight. For whatever reason, being told that I could be just like everyone else if only I changed this one feature of me was the ultimate insult.
But no, I’m not going to straighten it all of the time. This hair is mine. And seriously, get your hands out of it.
“Your hair is so pretty! Have you ever thought about straightening it?”
For many people, that is a compliment. Yes, on the surface, you just told me my hair was pretty. According to girl code, that’s a baseline of small talk. If you had left it at that, it would not be an irritating statement.
When you have curly hair, people LOVE talking about your hair. From the time you are born, when people remark that your curls are beautiful, to elementary school, when kids tease you incessantly because you were the unfortunate singleton cursed with non-straight locks that your mom cut into a bowl of ugly crazy for some unknown reason, to junior high, when the other girls are constantly offering to gel and straighten your hair out of the goodness of their kind souls, but then laugh at you for looking different the minute you fall out of their good graces, to high school and adulthood where people constantly feel the need to discuss what you do with your hair and what you should be doing to make it actually be pretty. Yes. People love talking about your hair. Particularly while sticking their hands in it without permission. People love discussing where it comes from. Is it because you’re Irish? Is it because you not all of your ancestors are white? Inquiring minds need to know!
I was blessed to have the particular kind of curly hair that refuses to cooperate under most circumstances. I inherited it from my father, so my poor mom had no idea how to deal with her daughter’s coarse, thick, tangly mane. To cut down on time spent brushing my hair, she cut it into a bob in first grade that lead to three years of kids laughing at my general appearance. It didn’t really help that there was one other girl in my school with thick hair, who was mocked even more than I for her general ugliness. I never thought she was ugly, she just looked different, like me. I'd sheepishly defend her, and people would look at me like I was insane for thinking she was anything but strange, despite looking quite similar to her.
For many people, that is a compliment. Yes, on the surface, you just told me my hair was pretty. According to girl code, that’s a baseline of small talk. If you had left it at that, it would not be an irritating statement.
When you have curly hair, people LOVE talking about your hair. From the time you are born, when people remark that your curls are beautiful, to elementary school, when kids tease you incessantly because you were the unfortunate singleton cursed with non-straight locks that your mom cut into a bowl of ugly crazy for some unknown reason, to junior high, when the other girls are constantly offering to gel and straighten your hair out of the goodness of their kind souls, but then laugh at you for looking different the minute you fall out of their good graces, to high school and adulthood where people constantly feel the need to discuss what you do with your hair and what you should be doing to make it actually be pretty. Yes. People love talking about your hair. Particularly while sticking their hands in it without permission. People love discussing where it comes from. Is it because you’re Irish? Is it because you not all of your ancestors are white? Inquiring minds need to know!
I was blessed to have the particular kind of curly hair that refuses to cooperate under most circumstances. I inherited it from my father, so my poor mom had no idea how to deal with her daughter’s coarse, thick, tangly mane. To cut down on time spent brushing my hair, she cut it into a bob in first grade that lead to three years of kids laughing at my general appearance. It didn’t really help that there was one other girl in my school with thick hair, who was mocked even more than I for her general ugliness. I never thought she was ugly, she just looked different, like me. I'd sheepishly defend her, and people would look at me like I was insane for thinking she was anything but strange, despite looking quite similar to her.
You see, despite a heavy marketing campaign that tells you otherwise, being different is considered a social faux pas among students in the microcosm of elementary school. Kids can be great, but they can be awful, and my childhood was no different. Just like every other kid, I wanted to be a regular kid. One that was accepted by her peers. I’m sure that my other generally strange mannerisms and habits, in addition to my being a neurotic know-it-all didn’t really help my social status, but having an easy insult placed upon my head definitely set me into a lower social caste to begin with.
By the time I reached junior high, I had begun perfecting my outwardly visible lack of really caring about what my peers thought. For whatever reason, my winning personality had made me more acceptable amongst the pretty girls, although I highly doubt any of them truly considered myself a friend. They often spoke with me with a tone of pity, offering to do my hair for me, since they apparently knew better. While they were doing my hair, they would always try to commiserate about their own hair troubles, about how they actually had really curly hair (curls that I never saw, it looked pretty darn straight to me). Because their hair always ended up straight, it always seemed like curliness was considered a defect that some people were able to mask, like acne being covered with makeup and pudginess being eliminated with crash diets. When they were finished, I never really felt that my hair looked particularly different when they were done, but I did feel like that week’s charity case.
By the time I reached junior high, I had begun perfecting my outwardly visible lack of really caring about what my peers thought. For whatever reason, my winning personality had made me more acceptable amongst the pretty girls, although I highly doubt any of them truly considered myself a friend. They often spoke with me with a tone of pity, offering to do my hair for me, since they apparently knew better. While they were doing my hair, they would always try to commiserate about their own hair troubles, about how they actually had really curly hair (curls that I never saw, it looked pretty darn straight to me). Because their hair always ended up straight, it always seemed like curliness was considered a defect that some people were able to mask, like acne being covered with makeup and pudginess being eliminated with crash diets. When they were finished, I never really felt that my hair looked particularly different when they were done, but I did feel like that week’s charity case.
My own group of friends was actually fairly awesome towards me, but in true junior high form, whenever we would argue, their first line of attack was to comment on my inherent ugliness in the form of insults about my hair texture. I put on a brave face. I laughed it off when people pointed out that one curl was doing something especially weird. I pretended to not care when people pulled curls and yelled “Boing!” (seriously, don’t stick your hands in people’s hair). I acted like “Wow, you should really just straighten your hair” wasn’t an insulting thing to say to a person.
High school was more of the same. By then I had some control over the curls via a system of hair gel and braiding while my hair dried. Still, it was curly. I was invisible to the male species, except as being their awesome friend. As a sort of defense mechanism, I became more a “dude’s chick”, because if they weren’t going to want to sleep with me, it would be nice if they at least wanted to hang out with me more than the other girls. I still remained a sort of whipping girl amongst my female friends. It was the 90s, the time of the short bob, and my hair just didn’t allow me to conform. I took more of a punk/hippie stance to my appearance. If I couldn’t make it behave, I’d at least have it be long and streaked with whatever color I wanted. I could at least pretend that my appearance was a little bit intentional.
My school was quite small and 99% white. From a young age we were taught that you would never mock someone for being special needs, a different color, or a different religion. However, less obvious differences were fair game. To this date, one of the most Mean Girls moments of my life occurred in my sophomore year, when I walked into school and up to my friends one morning. I said hello, and a girl who was usually nice to me turned around and said, “If I were you, I’d just shave my head”, before turning back to her conversation. It was in front of everyone. Everyone heard. I responded with, “Thank you?” and walked away, hearing just one person saying, “Hey, that was kind of mean”, but being followed by nobody. That’s how it was in high school. At that point in my life, I was used to people randomly touching my hair (but please, really, get your hands out of my hair). I was used to them pointing out that it didn’t curl uniformly. I was used to boys pulling it because they were being “funny”. Whether I wanted it or not, curly hair had started to become a part of my identity. Being told to shave my head by a friend as a part of general morning pleasantries was too much. Even worse, nobody else seemed to think anything of it. I made it through the school day, went home and cried. Later on, people came to me and said they thought that the girl was really horrible for saying that. It didn't change the fact that nobody really stuck up for me. The damage was done.
By my junior year, I’d had enough. I decided one day to try straightening my hair. Armed with my friend’s 2” barrel, we spent an hour going through each lock of my hair. Imagine my surprise when it suddenly looked like everybody else’s hair! This would show them! I really wasn’t that different. When I showed up to school, I got the most compliments of any day of my life. I assumed that would happen, because I agreed, it looked good. I was not prepared for the added “compliments” that accompanied 50% of the responses:
High school was more of the same. By then I had some control over the curls via a system of hair gel and braiding while my hair dried. Still, it was curly. I was invisible to the male species, except as being their awesome friend. As a sort of defense mechanism, I became more a “dude’s chick”, because if they weren’t going to want to sleep with me, it would be nice if they at least wanted to hang out with me more than the other girls. I still remained a sort of whipping girl amongst my female friends. It was the 90s, the time of the short bob, and my hair just didn’t allow me to conform. I took more of a punk/hippie stance to my appearance. If I couldn’t make it behave, I’d at least have it be long and streaked with whatever color I wanted. I could at least pretend that my appearance was a little bit intentional.
My school was quite small and 99% white. From a young age we were taught that you would never mock someone for being special needs, a different color, or a different religion. However, less obvious differences were fair game. To this date, one of the most Mean Girls moments of my life occurred in my sophomore year, when I walked into school and up to my friends one morning. I said hello, and a girl who was usually nice to me turned around and said, “If I were you, I’d just shave my head”, before turning back to her conversation. It was in front of everyone. Everyone heard. I responded with, “Thank you?” and walked away, hearing just one person saying, “Hey, that was kind of mean”, but being followed by nobody. That’s how it was in high school. At that point in my life, I was used to people randomly touching my hair (but please, really, get your hands out of my hair). I was used to them pointing out that it didn’t curl uniformly. I was used to boys pulling it because they were being “funny”. Whether I wanted it or not, curly hair had started to become a part of my identity. Being told to shave my head by a friend as a part of general morning pleasantries was too much. Even worse, nobody else seemed to think anything of it. I made it through the school day, went home and cried. Later on, people came to me and said they thought that the girl was really horrible for saying that. It didn't change the fact that nobody really stuck up for me. The damage was done.
By my junior year, I’d had enough. I decided one day to try straightening my hair. Armed with my friend’s 2” barrel, we spent an hour going through each lock of my hair. Imagine my surprise when it suddenly looked like everybody else’s hair! This would show them! I really wasn’t that different. When I showed up to school, I got the most compliments of any day of my life. I assumed that would happen, because I agreed, it looked good. I was not prepared for the added “compliments” that accompanied 50% of the responses:
“You should do that all of the time!
“You’d only have to do it every three days, and it would look so good!”
“It looks so normal!”
“It’s so much better this way!”
That day, something inside of me changed. I had spent 17 years of my life being someone with curly hair. Whether I liked it or not, I had hair that was different, and it was mine. Yes, I looked different than normal when my hair was straight. Telling me that I needed to look different than myself as the norm was so insulting, and they didn’t even realize it. For years, I had accepted their insults as the natural order. It made sense to insult curly hair, because hair should it be straight. For whatever reason, being told that I could be just like everyone else if only I changed this one feature of me was the ultimate insult.
This lead to the ultimate moment of teenage introspection. If I was a 90's movie, there would be a Gin Blossoms song playing in the background while I wandered aimlessly for a night. Who cared if my hair was different? Why was that so wrong? The fact was that it wasn't wrong. If people didn't understand that, they were jerks. I straightened my hair a few times after that, always to the same reaction. After the novelty wore off, I saved straight hair only for dances, times when people would go to the salon for fancy hair anyway. My prom pictures had me rocking some natural curls, and I looked beautiful.
I soon left for college, where I went to a large state school. I suddenly went from being a girl nobody noticed to being a girl boys liked. Every guy I dated had a thing for chicks with curly hair. For the first time, my hair wasn’t a liability with the boys. For the first time, people didn’t really care (not that I was going to change it anyway). The first time I went to the East Coast, everyone made sure to point out if something contained pork. After a day of this, I asked my friend why, and she said it was because I looked like a stereotypical Jewish girl. What? I look like other people? I’m not a weirdo? That was the moment I realized I was never moving back home. I would never be a novelty again.
After all was said and done, the moment I finally felt truly at peace with my appearance happened because of an interaction with a 9-year old. It came randomly while I was working with her at a camp. She reached into my hair, petted it, and said, “Hey! You have ‘mixie hair’ like me! We could be sisters!”. She then pulled her hand out and said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t touch it. You should never grab other people’s hair. I hate that.” This five second reaction remains one of my favorite life moments.
Now I’m old. Most of my childhood neuroses are gone. The only time I get annoyed now is when I go to a salon for my hair being highlighted. It always leads to two hours of people first discussing how my hair looks when its brushed out (spoiler: large), then discussing how dry my hair is, then realizing it isn’t really unhealthy (it was just brushed out while dry), and then telling me that they are really great at styling curly hair (maybe, but not mine). Also, have I thought of the Keratin treatments or a Brazilian Blow-Out? I’ve solved that with going to a salon that specializes in curly hair. It’s worth it to not have to have a two hours of feeling like a corkscrewed frizzy side-show attraction. Sometimes if I’m feeling generous, I let the stylist straighten my hair.
I soon left for college, where I went to a large state school. I suddenly went from being a girl nobody noticed to being a girl boys liked. Every guy I dated had a thing for chicks with curly hair. For the first time, my hair wasn’t a liability with the boys. For the first time, people didn’t really care (not that I was going to change it anyway). The first time I went to the East Coast, everyone made sure to point out if something contained pork. After a day of this, I asked my friend why, and she said it was because I looked like a stereotypical Jewish girl. What? I look like other people? I’m not a weirdo? That was the moment I realized I was never moving back home. I would never be a novelty again.
After all was said and done, the moment I finally felt truly at peace with my appearance happened because of an interaction with a 9-year old. It came randomly while I was working with her at a camp. She reached into my hair, petted it, and said, “Hey! You have ‘mixie hair’ like me! We could be sisters!”. She then pulled her hand out and said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t touch it. You should never grab other people’s hair. I hate that.” This five second reaction remains one of my favorite life moments.
Now I’m old. Most of my childhood neuroses are gone. The only time I get annoyed now is when I go to a salon for my hair being highlighted. It always leads to two hours of people first discussing how my hair looks when its brushed out (spoiler: large), then discussing how dry my hair is, then realizing it isn’t really unhealthy (it was just brushed out while dry), and then telling me that they are really great at styling curly hair (maybe, but not mine). Also, have I thought of the Keratin treatments or a Brazilian Blow-Out? I’ve solved that with going to a salon that specializes in curly hair. It’s worth it to not have to have a two hours of feeling like a corkscrewed frizzy side-show attraction. Sometimes if I’m feeling generous, I let the stylist straighten my hair.
But no, I’m not going to straighten it all of the time. This hair is mine. And seriously, get your hands out of it.
About the Author:
A master of dry sarcasm, I’ve devoted my life to the pursuit of knowledge and good music, subverting the system, celebrating good times, enjoying the weirdness of life, pointing out the ridiculous, and helping others. I consider myself a breaker of glass ceilings/chains, a fighter of equal rights, and a lover of chocolate chip cookies.
