I Am Definitely My Hair

by Arathi D

There are some things in life that are beyond one’s control. How the Earth spins on its axis, the weather forecast for the day, what exactly is going on in your boss’s head when he’s asked you to do something within the most ridiculous time-frame, your mother’s mood swings, and most importantly (by far, to some, the most important thing, ever), the kind of hair that you’re born with.

I came screaming out of my mother’s womb with a head full of cork-screw curls. Little springy pieces of hair that refused, refused to be tamed, even at birth. My parents tried everything, even going as far as to shave my head several times to make sure my hair would grow out “better” (though to this day, I know not what they were trying to achieve).There are pictures of these episodes, and all they show is a kid bawling her eyes out, with a very bald, very oddly spherical head.

But I digress.

(This is going to read like a really convoluted version of India Arie’s I Am Not My Hair, but man, did she know exactly what she was talking about).

These cork-screw curls worked fine and dandy when I was all cute, young and cuddly, running around in pampers, curls bouncing around bountifully as I skipped my way through childhood. But alas, we all grow up, so did I, and things took a turn for the uglier.

Puberty is never kind to the best of us, and I was no different. Come the strange smells, the temper tantrums, the bad skin, and the awful hair. What was once cute, now became bristly and wiry, kind of like those steel wool sponges (if you can even call them that) that are used to scrub pots and pans. I lived on the Equator, so that also meant the humidity messed with my hair as much as it did with my mind; there was no taming the frizz, which wasn’t quite frizz, but more of wild bristles growing in length, furious and angry.

(Now that I think about it, that was some angry, rebellious hair right there. Not very different from my pubescent self then).

I went through my teens doing everything I could to make the curly un-curl. Hair oils, straighteners, prayers, moon-dances, many broken combs, you name it, I did it. Each time, a little more of my soul shrunk and a bit more of my hair got damaged (no less grizzly, mind, just damaged).

Then, my life changed that pivotal moment I met my hairdresser. The crankiest woman, the best of magicians, the game changer.

That’s my first Big Tip for you — I don’t know how much time you’re spending looking for your Mr Right, but what’s truly going to change your life, is finding your Right Hairdresser. Start now.

She would stare at my hair for a while, mutter something in a hodgepodge of Cantonese and Chinese, then in the most brusque of tones, lay out her war strategy. In the face of my Lao Tzu of Hair Games, I was usually powerless. But powerless only because I knew once she was done with me, usually about six hours later, I would be on top of the world, mostly because I didn’t feel the need to hide my hair under a hair net every single time I stepped out of the house.

Life got a little better; I spent a significant part of my time with straight-ish, wavy-ish hair — I couldn’t bear the sight of any type of curls, because they brought the worst flashbacks of pimples, braces, and a teenage heartbreak. Yet, all them chemicals were ruining it big time, and I knew I wanted to have something on my head before I hit 45.

It was time. Time to go back to the basics.

It was like re-uniting with a partner that I had been separated from, for a long time. There was cautiousness and trepidation each time my fingers would reach up to touch the curls, there was a shy nervousness each time my eyes would meet my hair’s reflection in the mirror, there was a raw vulnerability each time I stepped out of the house feeling much more naked than I did before.

(It was exactly like getting back together with someone you knew so well, had such a complicated relationship with, had no choice but to deal with…again).

Which brings me to my second Big Tip — don’t be afraid to face your teenage hair fears, however frightening and scarring the experiences were. Over the years, you would have lost some of that baby fat, probably ditched the braces, your skin would have sorted itself out to some extent, and overall, you would be someone who has Seen Life, and hence, able to cope with its idiosyncrasies, such as the occasional bad hair days. And no time to face your childhood issues like the present, really. Go forth, get that haircut you thought you couldn’t deal with, or just go back to black, or like me, bring on the curls.

And the last and final Big Tip, the mother of all hair tips I could possible leave you with is:

You’re never going to be in control, and you’re never going to win when you have curly hair. You just can’t. You just won’t. Your hair will always have a life of its own, it will stand in whichever direction it so desires, it will eat fine-toothed combs for breakfast and brushes for tea, it will tangle and knot and complicate matters worse than men do with your lives, and it will grow bigger if it wants to. You’re not going to tame your mane. And that, my friends, is something you will learn to live with, because fortunately or unfortunately for you, there is no truer allegory to life than having a head of curly hair.

As you will learn to let your hair (and hair issues go), so will you let your trivialities in life go. As you will learn to laugh at how absolutely ridiculous you look some mornings when you get out of bed because your curls are such a mess, you will learn to laugh at the absolutely ridiculous situations you find yourself in. As you will learn to work with what you have on a not-too-good-hair day (or should I say, werqqqq), you will learn to work with what you have in life. Your curls will become one of your best teachers. Let them lead the way.