Hair: a history
See how I resisted calling this "Hairstory"? You're welcome.
When I was a little kid, pre-school age, I had short hair like a boy. The bowl cut in the early 1980s was as popular as it was unflattering, and one of the first thoughts I ever had about my physical appearance was, “I want long hair.”
My mom, though, had always had and preferred short hair. “You can have long hair when you can take care of it yourself,” she’d say. Thankfully, the standard of “taking care of it myself” was a fairly low bar, and by the third grade I had the same (more or less) messy past-the-shoulder style I’ve mostly had ever since.
My sister, like my mom, has also always preferred and mostly had short hair. She’s “tender-headed” and hated having her hair brushed or fixed as a kid, which is a shame, because her hair is naturally glossy and straight, a bit lighter-blonde and less red than mine: she has Mary Travers hair, while mine has always been, basically, a banshee’s. But she didn’t care to show it off — my grandmother would chase her around the house with the hairbrush and practically have to tackle her like a wild wolf pup to get any tangles out while she complained. I, though, loved for my hair to be fussed over. “Yes, Mimi, make me beautiful!” My other grandmother knew how to french-braid, the only person in my family who did: Heaven!
In preparation for the divorce, my mom had begun attending night school to become a respiratory therapist. It was a smart move to make sure she’d be able to financially support us in a separate household, but it also meant that for about a year she was not around to get us ready for school, relying on my hapless dad to do the job.
Were we un-naked? We were wearing shoes? Great, let’s go because we’re already late!
The school we went to was a “magnet” school on the poor side of town, and over 50% Black. This meant that I saw lots and lots of hairstyles, mostly ones elaborately cooler than mine. I took to doing my best to copy the styles of the Black girls in my class: I loved the look of multiple pony- and pig-tails, all with different colored rubber bands and clips (this was the 80s). They, of course, had people doing their hair for them, making sure that literally every single strand was in place.
I believe the most pony-tails I ever achieved on my own head was five, and it took work.
“Sarah comes to school with some very…interesting hairstyles,” the teacher told my mom on parent night.
After the divorce, we moved to a new school district, one with hardly any Black kids at all — it was my first touch with suburbia and also my first true realization that there were a lot of families much better off than my own. Girls prided themselves in “never wearing the same outfit twice,” something I could not participate in even within the same two-week period.
But I had my hair. Cut, permed, in weird, half-up pigtails that made me look not unlike a cocker spaniel…I always thought it looked fabulous.
I still love my hair. In fact, I’d say it’s probably my favorite physical feature. If I were to lose it, it would be hard to find myself attractive in a mirror. I’d definitely look for a wig exactly like it.
It’s the color of honey, or maybe of a pile of wood, shades from darkish-brown (underneath and extremely healthy) to lighter blonde (sun-damaged and crispier on the top layers), with lots of intermittent reddish shades in the middle.
Lately, I’ve been noticing gray and white hair coming in. This does not bother me, and it’s not noticeable anyway. However, I thought my hair I already had would turn gray, and apparently that’s not how it works. The gray and white hairs are new, and sprout at the top of my head, giving me a weird halo that I’m constantly trying to smooth down.
And while the combination of that and too many split ends has my hair looking a little extra wild lately, I just don’t want to cut it…I want it long, the last vestige of youth that I might manage to hang on to as wrinkles become more pronounced and my body fat redistributes itself in ways that I absolutely would not have voted for.
Plus, it always looks kind of wild, and I am generally a fan of wild, big hair on pretty much anyone.
These days, I am in charge of more hair than my own. My daughter Lisa was born with hair and a bald spot, making her look like the aging men in my family. But once it all grew in, she grew it long, and had it all the way down her back for most of her childhood.
Her hair is the same texture as mine: thick and wavy, hard to tame. Hers is dark brown with reddish highlights in the sun, and I love it. Unfortunately, she inherited both my hair’s unruliness and her attitude toward others messing with it from her namesake — my sister. Especially now that she’s 11 and has it shorter, she does not want me messing with it.
It’s Mimi chasing Lisa around the house with a hairbrush all over again.
I mostly leave her alone as long as it’s clean and untangled…I’m pretty sure it would form into dreadlocks if she went more than three days without touching it, and I don’t want Mexican CPS knocking on my door to inquire about my unkempt child.
There was a piece of a Khalil Gibran writing I read as a teenager: “The wind wants to play with your hair,” and ever since reading that, I’ve happily let it.
There are a lot of things I won’t get to keep until the end of my life, I know. And while it’s certainly not at the top of the list, I hope my hair is something I do get to keep. It’s hard to imagine myself as an 80-year-old, but one thing I can imagine is sitting in a chair and twirling my hair around my fingers, the wood and honey colors a feast for my eyes.
Like I do now.
This is a really cool piece, intimate, funny, and unexpected. Speaking of mothers doing things to daughter's hair, a friend's mother--this was in the mid to late 60s--used to go after his long hair to the point where he wore a football helmet to bed.
A lovely reflection on your life through hair. I would even forgive you calling it hairstory. Such a personal reflection gave me a bit of a lift. Thanks.