Growing Pains

Hair has always been my nemesis. No matter the style, mine failed to resemble the gal on the back cover of Seventeen. I wanted a ponytail, but though my hair is fast growing, the weeks rolled by in fragments of an inch, and trimming split ends was a major setback. 

The French Twist, the hairdo, not the dance —that would come a bit later— was in high fashion. It seemed easy enough. Gather the hair back, twist into a tube-like roll and pin it up. Then spray like hell. The results resembled a poodle’s nightmare, with that feeling of petrified locks that grew sticky in the Louisiana heat, and the bobby pins alone could set off metal detectors.

Long hair had its tedious side, especially if your hair was straight like mine, pampas grass on a windy day. Waves were in, straight was out. So it was either a head full of rollers or a perm. I opted for the rollers since I’d sworn off perms as a child. But that meant sleeping with them. Another trial. Small rollers were easier because your head was closer to the pillow and you might get some sleep, but in the morning the curls would cling to your scalp until the heat loosened them. So the larger rollers, with inside brushes, would have to do. And though the curls were softer, this meant a twisted neck in the morning.

Hair Roller

The Pixie, with its daring shortness, caught my eye. If I couldn’t have Rapunzul’s braid, or her ponytail, then it’d have to be the clippers. Actually, this style suited my face and my life style best, though I didn’t want to admit it. A quick wash and fingers flicking through the hair for an air-dry, great for swimming, and no rollers!

I think these impossible images of perfection launched me into rebellion in many things. There were partial successes, but the constant struggle to fit the model doomed my adult years to the motto: It’ll grow back.

an excerpt from the forthcoming memoir

Released at 21

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