Ti, Norma, and I were relaxing on the deck of Norma’s summer home on Martha’s Vineyard. A huge floppy hat was planted firmly over my bad hair day – – too much humidity, too much kink, and too much hair. It was truce time between my hair and me.
Ti looked at me and said, “I think you’d look cute with short hair.”
“Nah, I don’t think so.”
My refusal fell on deaf ears. Ti dragged Norma into the conversation. Norma turned her Revlon red grin in my direction and told Ti where to find scissors and a towel.
I put up a weak resistance, but I could feel myself begin to waffle. What would one more hair disaster mean in the context of years of hair disasters? I shrugged and said, “Okay.”
Norma moved a deck chair into hair-cutting position for Ti, and then made a front row spot for herself.
My heart beat faster; time slowed, and images of my hair wars flashed behind my eyes.
They began with pigtails that took me through elementary school. I hated them. They did not embody the image of someone who was smart, stylish, and witty. When I looked into the mirror, that’s who I saw staring back at me. Pigtails didn’t cut it.
When I blew out the candles on my birthday cakes, I wished for one thing – – straight hair. When I prayed for the health and safety of my parents, and reluctantly for that of my little brother, I always added a postscript to God for straight hair. Along with that miracle, I knew the outside me would match the inside me.
No such luck.
In high school, I exchanged my Dick Clark American Bandstand ponytail for a pageboy, which was achieved through sheer torture. The smell of Dixie Peach Pomade and hot comb smoke permeated our kitchen every other Saturday night. Yes, my hair was straight, but only temporarily. I learned to hate swimming and to fear rainy days. Water would make my hair ‘go back’, and then I’d have to go through that sheer torture all over again. I did not look or feel smart, stylish or witty.
My first perm came just in time for graduation. It made my hair straight and kept it that way. A battle won! Off to college I went, with a suitcase full of hair maintenance equipment: special shampoo, conditioner, rollers, Dippity Do hair gel, endpapers, and a big bonnet hair dryer. At last I had the kind of long, straight hair I’d dreamed about and wished for, but to my dismay and disappointment, it did not express my smarts, style, or wit.
Marriage came next, and motherhood. Too busy to worry about my hair, and too tired to think about being smart, stylish, and witty, I wanted simple and easy. The Afro arrived, and in political solidarity with the Civil Rights Movement (and because my hair was thinning and breaking from constant perms – – yes, I see the irony!) I switched to a ‘Fro, a BIG ‘Fro, a supersized Angela Davis ‘Fro. My husband was upset that I no longer had long straight hair. My mother couldn’t understand why I’d want to leave my house “with all those naps on top of your head.” I wore my Afro defiantly, walked softly, and carried a big pick.
When that phase passed, I thought about cornrows or dreadlocks, but did not have the chutzpah. I declared a cease-fire between my NOT crowning glory and me. I accepted the fact that there might never be a hair match. And so, the truce remained in effect until this moment on the Vineyard. Now it hung in the moment, waiting for resolution.
I looked from Ti to Norma and back. Ti flicked the towel and clicked the scissors. Norma’s manicured fingers tap, tap, tapped the arm of her deck chair. Into the pause hanging between us, I said, “Do it.”
Ti began to cut. I heard the snip, snip, snip of the scissors, and watched with curious detachment as brown, wooly clumps the size of golf balls fell onto the towel around my shoulders. Norma was at full attention. Her eyes sparkled. This was high Sister-Girl drama.
“I’m going to shape it to your head,” Ti said. “It’ll be really short in back, but you’ll have enough on top to set in small rollers for a little curl. Now, it’ll probably take you a little time to get used to it, so don’t be upset when you look in the mirror.”
I didn’t like the tentative tone in her voice. I didn’t like the sinking feeling creeping into my gut. I felt panic slide in.
A few snips later, Ti proclaimed, “There! Now go shampoo, pick your hair out, and let me clip the stray ends. Then we’ll put a few rollers in the front, and you’ll be all set.” Her fingers patted here and fluffed there. She leaned over my shoulder. “Now don’t hate me if you don’t like it, okay?”
I nodded weakly. My knees shook as I stood up. I planned to dash to the bathroom, have a private fit, and then get myself under control. The sliding glass door to the kitchen was closed, and I caught a glimpse of my reflection. My breath caught in my throat, my jaw dropped, and shivers went up my spine. I was overwhelmed, bowled over, ecstatic, and more than pleased. I matched! Inside and out! I clapped my hands.
“Ti, it’s wonderful!”
“Oh, good, then you like it?” Ti looked relieved.
“Like it? I love it. It’s me! It’s really me!” I hugged Ti. I hugged Norma.
Imagine that! In the end, all it took to match my inner view of myself to the outer expression was the unfolding of time, good friends, and a pair of old kitchen scissors.
Previously Published in Enlighten Up! Finding Clarity, Contentment and Resilience in a Complicated World, Emerald Lake Books, Sherman, CT, February 2023. It has been revised for inclusion in this publication.
This was written by our contributing writer, Elizabeth Gibbs.
Image Source: Pexels, murat esibatir
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