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I remember being bathroom counter tall and watching my mother wrestle with her hair. Curls she would chop and then grow and chop and then grow again. She's smile as she futzed with mousses and banana clips, wink and talk about how she was blessed with "naturally curly hair" {in the exact tone as Frieda from the Peanuts}, sometimes bouncing the ends of her curls with the palm of her hand.
I'd giggle with her and look at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Touch my short, mostly straight hair. Sigh sometimes. Dream of growing up and running my hands through spirals that bounced and stayed put and swirled around my head.
The mostly straight hair turned waves. Neither straight nor curls. In between.
Late childhood was spent sleeping on wet hair filled with foam pink curlers and plastic clasps, I was desperate for curly locks. I'd sleep {or rather, not sleep because of being poked in the scalp with the plastic devices....} fitfully, anxious for the new day and fresh curls. I'd wake to dry hair a few curls that would fizzle by mid morning. They quickly turned back to frizzy waves.
I thought of perms, drastic changes and measures, to have someone else's hair. But ultimately I settled for the other extreme. Stick straight, damaged, ironed hair.
After fostering an abusive relationship with my flat iron for years, I recently gave in to the in between. The waves and the frizz. And it wasn't pretty. But I kept on keeping on. My hair got longer, the frizz fuller, and it was me. Unpolished. Frazzled. But me.
A week or so ago I was at the grocery store and walked down the hair product aisle, looking for something, but unsure of what. I found a green bottle, mousse for curls. Extra strong.
I bought it. On a total whim.
And now, I wear my hair curly. With one minutes worth of polishing, my waves turn into the locks I never thought I would have. Shiny, bouncy, curls that swirl around my face.
The curls are now mine, along with a healthy does of acceptance. I look the way I feel. Some of the work that I've done on the inside is showing on the outside. And it feels good. The good, the beauty in us, takes time to shine through. To remind us, or show for the first time, that its always been there, waiting for a little bit of polish, a little bit of work.
Who knew that the simple solution to my hair problems was a regime that was less intensive than anything I'd tried before. And I didn't even have to touch the hair dryer. All thanks to a green bottle of mousse.
**edited to add picture of messy curls**
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