My Hair
by Addie Kramer
My hair and I have a love-hate relationship though, to be honest, it tends toward the hate side. My locks have been unruly since my hair first started growing and it seems evident that they will stay that way until it stops.
As soon as my hair was long enough, my forehead was adorned with a single, silky curl. It grew from there, reaching beyond my hips within a few years. By then, it was a long, carefree, tangled mess. It lost its wispiness and was now full on crazy. I still remember sitting in front of my couch before going to daycare, my mom yanking a brush through my matted hair.
She told me stories of her mom doing the same thing and telling her that she was screaming “so loud all of the neighbors can hear”. I got my dark, curly hair from my mom. Though hers is so dark some consider it black, it is our most similar feature. It is actually one of our only similar features. Our curly hair seems to be so defining that, despite our dissimilarities, people always say we look a lot alike.
I hated getting my hair brushed, and I would complain so much she threatened to cut my hair off many times. Once at the age of five, after seeing my friend with an adorable bob haircut, I begged my mom to give the same to me. I was so naïve, unaware of the horrors of short, un-layered curly hair. I looked like the woman from the Dilbert cartoons for a year.
At the moment, my hair hits just above my shoulders. There are clear “s” patterns along my temples, formed from coaxing my curls into finger waves for last spring’s play. Beneath that, the pattern is much less predictable. My ringlets are nowhere near as perfect as they used to be. The only control comes from an arsenal of hair products. There are products to tame frizz and products to define the curls. Most of the time, it is pulled back in a ponytail or bun to hide the craziness it has become. I still have a hard time believing that people spend loads of money to make their hair curly. Anyone is welcome to have mine.
