Write about hair.

1960 (four years old)

This photo appeared in the local newspaper;

the photographer chose me over all the other children.

Here's a poem I wrote in December 2009. It came to me suddenly, pretty much the way it's posted here:

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 too 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.


Update on my poem:

First, I was incorrect about the cancer that killed Farrah Fawcett. She died of anal cancer.

Ironically, on November 25, 2011, nearly two years after writing God Gave Me Curls, I was diagnosed with Stage III-A colon cancer. I did undergo chemotherapy, but I did not lose my hair -- the chemo for colon cancer differs from the chemo for breast cancer. In fact, my hair stayed healthy and even seemed to grow at a more rapid rate. During my chemo treatments, I did see other women who had lost their hair. I felt sooooo guilty when I went to the cancer center, my hair thick and long and pulled back into a braid. So I started to pull my hair up and hide it underneath a knitted hat (I was getting my treatments in February).

Eventually, I stopped going to the cancer center and switched from injections of 5-FU to oral Xeloda. I was glad to not longer have to go to the cancer center and have to hide hair.

Sometimes, when I told people I was on chemo for colon cancer, I saw their eyes dart immediately to my hair. Several times I had to explain that colon cancer patients usually do not lose their hair. Because of the all the media emphasis on breast cancer and the women who lose their hair during chemo, I felt I had been "cheated" out of my cancer experience. I mean, how can I really know about chemo of I was able to keep all my hair?

As of today, March 1, 2013, I am released from treatment and preparing to find employment (I have been off work since June 2012). My prognosis is good and I feel great!

My mother died in June 2012. She and I never made peace with each other in this life. However, several months after she died I had the epiphany that in death she was now accountable for her behavior towards me. I don't know if I have forgiven her, but I do feel justified / validated / vindicated. This has given me serenity and peace of mind.