Tame the Frizz
When my grandmother was still alive, we spent Christmas Day with my dad’s family. My grandma, my dad, my dad’s four siblings, their spouses, and all my cousins would gather at my aunt’s house in the early afternoon for food, music, presents, games, and swimming. It was my favorite day of the year, the one time each year we all got together and just had fun. My family worked together, showed up together in tough times, and supported each other’s kids in their sports, but Christmas was one of the few times a year they simply celebrated together.
A good portion of Christmas Day always felt like business, we would be at Mom’s for an allotted amount of time, Dad would pick us up, we’d head to his sisters, eat dinner (which always contained kielbasa and pickle wraps), and open presents with the extended family. There was an agenda to the day, but it was a comforting rhythm that was only a prequel to the fun we all had when the adults let loose after dinner.
One of my favorite parts of my aunt’s house was that it had an indoor pool. Her and her husband built a trucking empire that left them wealthy and on days like Christmas they shared it all with us. Water is one of my most coveted places, so when I got to swim on a frigid December day, it felt like the best kind of present. I can still remember the sounds that echoed around that room, the anticipation I had while putting on my swimsuit, and the smell of chlorine when you walked into the house.
My relationship with the pool was a dichotomy though. It was inevitable that after hours of jumping in and out of the pool with my cousins, my mass of hair was always left snarly, matted, and heavy on the top of my head. My curls require a post-pool treatment to get back to normal. I loved swimming, couldn’t get enough, but it always left my hair a disaster that had to get cleaned up.
My dad, especially, saw my hair as a burden. I suspected he appreciated that people thought my hair was beautiful and liked the attention, but didn’t know how to do the work to help me keep it that way.
There was a time when I was three that my dad got fed up with my hair and cut it all off while my mom was away on a trip. I can remember the moment well that led up to that decision. My dad and I were in my grandma’s bathroom and he was brushing my hair after a bath. On that particular night there was a really tough spot that needed some extra work. He yanked and ripped on that spot over and over. When he got impatient with it, he did it even harder. Ripping and ripping more and more, hoping if he did it harder he could force the comb to break through the knot. The pain must have gotten to be too much for me, because I remember pulling away from him quickly after one hard pull and biting him on the inside of his leg. That was my best line of defense. That did it though, he put me to bed with my tangles and the next day he went and got my hair chopped off.
I don’t remember actually getting my hair cut, but my mom remembers coming home to my hair all gone and weeping about her loss. My mom still tells that story over 35 years later, disappointed by my dad’s choice and my behavior.
My hair was hers, it has never been mine.
On Christmas, when my hair needed help, my dad’s sisters would all try to help. A few adults would gather around me, trying out different methods for brushing and cleaning my hair. Even my dad’s youngest sister, the only other one who grew up with hair as curly as mine, would try, but it never seemed like we could find a good solution for all the post swimming knots.
No one really knew how to take care of my hair. I always felt the most alone during times like that. I was the center of attention and at the same time, not one of the adults knew what to do with me. Thankfully, my swelling eyes and tears were easily concealed by the wet tangly hair.
I often hated the attention my hair received, the long burdensome time it took to care for it, and how much emphasis the adults around me put on how gorgeous it looked. I could never keep up with the demands they had for my hair. It never felt possible to keep my frizz tamed. I didn’t feel like I could ever meet their hair expectations and none of the adults around me would do the work to help me keep it nice. They would give me a few tools and potential solutions, but it was up to me to take care of it. Even as a kid, I was expected to do that all on my own.
My curls were a mask for confidence and strength. All the adults in my life could only see the bright flashy curls on my head, while I was all there underneath barely bearing the shadows my hair laid across my face. They only saw my curls. I hid in plain sight. Alone and unseen, with a wild flashy main of curly hair that no one could look away from.
Today that feeling manifests in a practical obsession with my hair. I have relaxed a bit after 38 years, since I have figured out how to take care of my hair in a healthy way, but every day I think about it. I think about how frizzy my hair is and whether or not one section feels flatter than the other. My hair is now the longest it has ever been. I have been growing it out, trying to embrace the wild of it. I love it now more than I ever have, but the stress of how it might look to others buries me some days.
I had two family funerals recently, one on each side of my family and not much changed about how my family members see my hair. A handful of them were amazed at how long my hair has gotten and everyone complimented me on it. One family member took their compliments a bit far and even said to me “You are too beautiful to look at, you should put a bag over your head.” Very few of them asked me about my life or why my soon-to-be-ex husband wasn’t with me at either event.
Despite the work I’ve done to embrace my hair, the focus on my hair doesn’t change. My hair, like me, is different from those around me, wild and untamed. The people closest to me have always been both in awe of it and insecure about how to care for it.
