Attack of the Killer Hair

I'm here to discuss something of the utmost importance.

That's right, my hair.

When I was born, my parents knew I was doomed to have the largest hair imaginable. With Italian and Jewish roots, there was no chance of me having silky smooth straight hair like the girls in picture books and movies. And so I was born, 6lbs 3 ounces (and although my mom denies it, i'm pretty sure I had a full head of hair.) For the first few years of my life, God was nice. He let me have nice, thin, light brown hair that brushed my shoulders. Sadly, it seems like the day I started school was the day my hair attacked.

I have thick dark brown hair. Not in a "oh my hair is sooo thick" whiney way, but in a "my hair alone weighs seven pounds" kind of way. And it's wavy. Not the good kind of waves, the beach ones that look perfect right out of the salty sea, oh no, the "we're going to twist and twirl in every direction so you look electrocuted" kind of waves. Imagine all of this on a skinny, short six year old.

As a child, my mom did my hair in the morning before I went to school. Standing in the bathroom, she'd grab the giant blue hairbrush and push down roughly, trying, unsuccessfully, to get every knot out of my hair. Holding onto the sink until my knuckles turned white, I'd close my eyes and let her put my hair in a tight, high pony tail. Tight pony tails were essential. If the band was remotely loose, all hell broke lose as my hair slowly frizzed out of the band, creating a giant poof where my head should be.

Picture days were the best. No one likes picture day. The best part was getting the cheap plastic comb to straighten out your hair mere moments before the photographer posed you in an awkward position. Seriously, I never sat with my head so far up and hands neatly on my lap, so why do it for a picture that will be immortalized on the shelf above the fireplace? I never tried using the comb on my hair because it would easily get lost. That's because on those days, my hair was worse than normal. The night before, my mom would braid my long hair into thousands of little, tightly wound braids. She wanted to create beautiful crimpy waves for my picture (I did grow up in the 80's after all), but instead i'd have a giant birds nest where my hair should be. If people got too close, my hair would eat them alive. I'm not kidding, I saw it happen.

In seventh grade, I wore my hair down one day (for some unfathomable reason.) With giant red plastic glasses and bright blue braces on my small stature, I was the picture of beauty. A boy in my history class asked me if I was trying to grow and afro. I didn't wear my hair down again until I was 16 years old.

My hairdresser was no help. She'd compliment my hair, saying she wished she had such huge, gloriously thick hair. I always replied, "go ahead and take it, I don't want it." Every time I would get it cut, i'd ask with hope in my voice if there was a way to control the mess. If I could have long, straight, beautifully thin hair like my friends. "No," she'd reply, "you were born with hair this way." I'd silently weep.

At the age of 16, my friend Melanie cut her hair up to her chin. It was crazy, it was wild, and I had to do it. I figured if there was nothing to be done with my shoulder blade length pouffy hair, I might as well get rid of it. And get rid of it I did. I wasn't as brave as Melanie, so I cut it to a bit above my shoulders. I was thrilled...until I realized that now, rather than being long and out of control, it was short and crazy. It was then that I learned about the wonders of gel. Although my hair was decently controlled, it was still not perfect, and far from pretty. How I had a boyfriend at that time, I still don't know.

In college I let it grow out again, but now I knew about styling products. Although they never made my hair movie star beautiful, my pony tails would at least look decent and I learned how to form my waves into curls. I was content with that.

The summer before my junior year of college, I stayed in Georgia as a camp counselor. One night, my suite mate, Kate, asked me if she could straighten my hair. Having absolutely no clue what she meant, I said "sure!" and figured that she couldn't do anything to make it worse. I sat still on the floor as she brushed my hair and gently put it through a straightening iron. For forty minutes, I watched a video of Cirque du Soliel, wondering what would happen when she was done.

As my body started to ache from being so still, she finally announced, "Oh my God. Lauren, take the mirror." As I looked at myself in the mirror, my mouth dropped open. My hair--it was straight! And not only was it straight, it was thin, shiny, and...might I even say...pretty! I didn't know what to do other than stare.

After grasping reality (and ungrasping the mirror), my first thought was, "Ha, hairdresser. Proved you wrong." My second was "I need to show everyone. Now." Just as I was about to get up, my friend George bounded into the room. He stopped short when he saw me.

"Oh my God, Lauren! You're...pretty!" Thankfully, he caught himself. "I mean, you've always been pretty, of course, but now, look at you! You're hot! Seriously, Lauren!" I raised one eyebrow and thanked him for his poorly worded compliment. Nothing could spoil my mood, though. I was pretty and I knew it.

I didn't wash my hair for four days. I didn't want to remove the magic.

Later that summer, I received, as a gift, my very own straightening iron. Since then, I've replaced it with a better one about three years ago. My hair has changed in length occasionally, but always, for nights out, it was straight. Naturally, I couldn't dedicate 20 minutes a morning to perfecting my hair, but I learned to control it without using an iron. I curled it, I gelled it, and on those nights I wanted to look good? Well, you better believe that I wore that straightening iron out.

With that comes the end of an era. My straightening iron is dead. As is begs me to quietly put it to rest, I need to contemplate which kind to purchase next (suggestions anyone?) and ask it to stay alive until I can afford a new one. I will give it a proper burial soon, though. I owe it that much.

Earlier this month, I cut my hair quite short again. Going from mid-back to a bit higher than my shoulders was crazy, but definitely worth it. Although occasionally I miss my long, flowing hair, I enjoy this shorter, spunky look. The other day, I threw it into a half pony tail and ran to work. Half way through the day, when leaving the bathroom, I looked at my hair. It looked good, flipping out neatly at the ends with my bangs hanging loosely on the sides. I realized that I didn't straighten it in the morning and it had barely any product in it. There, in the woman's bathroom in Veranda Park, I embraced my hair. Finally, 24 years later, we became friends.