The battle between me and my hair rages on. I’m convinced that my hair is the source of all my failures. You see, I could have had beautiful silk locks, but apparently, the sperm that created me wasn’t having any of that. I got caught in between, as most half children do. I got my mother’s black Asian hair, and my father’s thick wavy hair.
I am 100% certain that my hair is the same consistency as a poodle’s. I only say this because my hair has been compared to said poodle on numerous occasions. I first realized this curse when I was in grade school. My hair had been short, cute, and pretty darn thin up until that point. Things started to change when I decided to grow my hair out. I saw that all the other girls were doing it, so I wanted to do it. But what I didn’t realize is that my hair was growing new hair instead of the old. Little hairs began to poke out here and there, making it look like I had antennas spouting from all directions. Thus, I was given the alias of Poodle. Nobody actually called me that, but it was the first time that I was ever compared to the dog. Heck, I didn’t even know what a poodle looked like at the time. I thought it was a compliment.
My eyes were opened to the possibility that my hair made me ugly by Arthur (if you don’t know who that is by now, then go back to the last chapter). I was sitting on the couch with my friend when her brother came home from school. Arthur had the knack of messing up his sister’s hair every once and while to piss her off, but today wasn’t one of those days. Instead, he messed up my hair, claiming: “I have always wanted to do that.” I laughed, because that’s what one does when you have a crush. But then he said, “It’s so frizzy, like a poodle or something. Don’t you ever comb it?”
Was that his way of calling me ugly? Of course I combed my hair, it was the only way to make it manageable. I pouted the rest of the time that I was at the house, Arthur eating a bowl of popcorn like what he said was meaningless. Later that day, I went home and told my parents what had happened. Dad said it’s all in the genes, and Mom gave me some advice which I heavily believed: “If you brush your hair one hundred times ever night, you will have silky smooth hair and good luck.” To this day I still believe it and do it every night before I go to bed.
From that day on, I knew that I had to do something about my hair if people were to take me seriously. I tried everything from hairspray to wrapping my hair in olive oil. But my hair continued to stay frizzy. At one point in my life, I said “fuck it.” I didn’t want to deal with my hair, and it was too long to manage anyways. So, I chopped it all off. Okay, not all off, just to the shoulders. I thought that if I had the same hairstyle as when I was a kid, it would look good. Boy, was I wrong dot com.
What I failed to notice was that I had much thicker hair than before and that instead of looking cute, I would end up looking like I had a panda sleeping on my head. But it was too late, the chop was done. The hairdresser styled my hair to look real good, I’m pretty sure that was the only time in my life that I actually had a good hair day, and I thought it would last forever. That night, I took a shower and washed my hair. I dried off my body and let my hair air dry. Once my hair was all dry, I ran to the nearest mirror to take a look at my amazing haircut and, lo and behold, it looks as if my hair had grown two times the size in thickness than it was when it was longer. I cried and cried. My mom ended up taking me back to the hairdresser the next day to get another awesome blowout.
I went over to my friend’s house that day. Arthur said my hair looked good. I vowed to never wash my hair again. I didn’t want to be compared to a dog, it felt so demeaning and honestly hurt. I went a week without washing my hair, but in the end, my hair was so shiny from grease that my mom dragged me into the bathroom and washed it for me.
It wasn’t until years later that I found the magic of dry shampoo. Truly a miracle worker. But before I could get to that, my earlier options were not so hot. I remember my mom experimenting with baby powder to brush down the baby hair, and the one time she sprayed a shit ton of hairspray down my part and brushed it out with a toothbrush. There was one time that she thought she could use some gel in a strange container under the sink, but it ended up bleaching my roots instead of holding them down. I had to dye that part of my hair brown (because the story didn’t have any black in stock). I ended up growing my hair out and chopping that part of my life away when it was long enough.
I think I’ve finally come to terms with my hair. We’ve made an agreement to settle with what we got. My hair gets my damaged scalp and I get the frizz. It doesn’t really help that I started scratching my scalp for pleasure ever since I was diagnosed with anxiety, but that a story for another time. I really had to think about all the years that I’ve tried and tried to work with my hair, but failed every time. “Fuck it.”
Maybe I’ll forever have my hair in a pony tail. Maybe I’ll have a hat for everyday, like that guy from 30 Rock. It sucks, but it’s my head and by hair. Sure, my hair doesn’t make me feel beautiful. In fact, I’m so self conscious about my hair, my hair has it’s own badmouthing conscious. It’s probably saying, “You’re a failure and no one takes good care of you. Here, have some humidity, bitch.” At the same time, my mind is saying essentially that same thing but in a more “You’re ugly. No wonder you’re still single,” kind of way.
But I’ve noticed something. I’m the only one who seems to care about my hair and how it makes me look and feel. I’m sure people have passed me and questioned it, but not verbally. I think I’ve figured it out! They don’t care. And if they don’t care, then I shouldn’t care, right? There are plenty of men and women with frizzy hair that just don’t give a flying shit in space. I wish I could have that confidence. Please, come over here and sprinkle your confidence on me.