Write about hair.

Sleepy Hollow Cemetery
October 2010

GOD GAVE ME CURLS

God gave me curls.

Soft, auburn-blonde curls.

Curls that frame a child's face

Like a Florentino cherub.

When I was little

I looked like Shirley Temple --

chubby, bright-eyed, becurled.

While restrained by a glove-covered hand

a smiling stranger approached,

stopped us on the street,

and squatted down

to look into my eyes.

"Do you know," he said,

with a delightful smile,

"that you look just like

Shirley Temple?"

I beamed.

As we walked away from the stranger,

the gloved hand tightened

around my small fingers

and yanked my arm

demanding my attention.

I turned my face up,

blinked into the bright sunlight,

and sought out the familiar,

angry, cow-brown eyes,

and stern, twisted face.

"Don't believe everything

a stranger tells you,"

the mommy with the gloved hand

snarled.

We drove to Buffums

in a 1956 pink Cadillac

with white leather seats

and a wooden steering wheel.

An appointment had been made

to cut my hair.

My "unruly" curls were shorn.

They slid down the plastic smock,

wet, blonde, perfect little circles,

and fell defeated to the linoleum floor,

gathered in piles

around the hydraulic chair,

were swept away

and dumped into the silver canister

with a foot pedal.

I felt so ugly.

Teased at school.

Teased at Sunday school.

Teased at summer camp

where they nicknamed me "rat's nest"

because of my unruly, curly hair.

In 10th grade

I defied the hand

that often reached out

to slap me across my face,

and refused the trip to Buffums

in the pink Cadillac.

The pressure was on

to look like Farrah Fawcett --

that bitch!!!

I hate her

and I hate that

fucking bathing suit photo

with her nipples protruding

and her blond mane --

straight, sexy,

and draped around her shoulders

like a Queen's coronation robe!

If life was hell before Farrah Fawcett,

it became hell times ten.

God did not give me

Farrah Fawcett hair

and bouncy surfer bangs.

God gave me curls.

I fought against God.

I learned to straighten my hair

with six jumbo-sized, four-inch pink rollers

and four large-sized, two-inch purple rollers

held in place with monstrous pins

that tore at my scalp

and made my head ache;

then two hours under

a portable hairdryer

that cost me a fortune --

only to step out

into the damp,

Southern California ocean air,

and have my straightened tresses

frizz and curl

into a tangled mess.

Sometimes,

as punishment,

for a minute infraction,

the now age-spotted and wrinkled hand

took away my curlers

and refused to "allow" me to wash my hair.

In my 20's

I grew my hair past my waist.

My God-given curls fell

into perfectly-formed ringlets

that drew awe and envy

from friends and strangers.

Surfer bangs were passé.

I began to love my curls.

One day

the hand touched my curls

and the mother said to me,

"Your neck is not long enough

for you to have this much hair.

It doesn't look good on you.

Why don't you cut it?"

Now in my 50’s

I’m alone,

I’m tired.

My curls are dry

and frizzed

and falling out in clumps.

Life is stressful.

My curls are to tired

to curl.

Farrah Fawcett died this year.

Colon cancer.

She'd lost all her hair.

The hand is 92,

withered and bent with age.

We haven’t spoken in years.

Even so, when I look in the mirror,

when I wash, or brush,

or arrange my hair,

I remember her cruelty

as if it were yesterday --

that she loathed me,

that she loathed my hair

and that I have no idea why --

and I remember Farrah Fawcett,

and I sometimes wish

I, too,

were dead.