The Curse of a Curly Head O’ Hair

I have a love-hate relationship with my hair. And I use the term “love” loosely. If you were to turn that love-hate relationship into an odometer, the needle would normally  point to tolerant acceptance with a slight inclination towards strong dislike.

Those of you who share in this curly headed curse certainly need no explanation to why this is so, but for you unfortunately ignorant souls I will attempt to help you understand the depth of frustration and agony associated with such a fate. And by ignorant souls I imply two parties. First of course is the male species who truly have no idea the lengths any female will go in an effort to control and style her hair, and certainly not us curly-haired folks. Party two is those females blessed with luscious, tamable locks – cute wavy bobs or smooth sleek straights – particularly the ones who insist on making comments like: “Oh Mel, I love your hair! You are so lucky to have curly hair. I wish mine was naturally curly too.” To them may I simply say: be careful what you wish for. To summarize, the point of this post is to help these parties understand the reality of this curse and to think twice before they compliment my monster.

Now, to make this straightforward I have decided to use a simple analogy of what it’s like to live with these locks. I will be comparing the curly-headed curse to taming a wild jungle monkey. Don’t laugh, it works.

Let’s pretend that at birth each person is given a wild jungle monkey that will remain with them for the rest of their life and with it the responsibility to tame and control that monkey. Needless to say, us curly-headed folks can be compared to the ones with the most unruly, most uncooperative, and most barbaric species of jungle monkey. (Note: from here on out we will only be comparing monkey taming to curly hair taming and the sleek straights and wavy bobs will be forgotten). Now, let’s also say that every morning you do your absolute best to try and tame your monkey – you feed it as many bananas as it’s heart desires, you grunt soothing monkey noises and lovingly caress your little friend, rewarding it for good behaviour and showing it all the kindness it deserves. Every morning it’s the same routine, the same love and the same care. At the end of each morning, however, your monkey can become one of two things (neither of which you have any control over): (1) a calm docile little guy pleased to do your bidding and sit contently eating a banana, or (2) a wild savage monkey running rampant around the room smashing everything in it’s path and screaming like a banshee.

As you can no doubt understand, this analogy perfectly describes my morning routine of dealing with this curse o’ hair. Each morning I wake up and do my absolute best to try and tame my curls. I start by washing my hair with only the best curl boosting, frizz taming and smooth shining shampoos and conditioners on the market. This is followed closely (upon exiting the shower) with only the best smoothing serums and curling creams stroked lovingly into each strand. I then attempt to calm and define my little curly demons with certain coaching methods such as twirling, twisting and scrunching. I also spend time using a diffuser (a special accessory for a blow dryer needed to accentuate curls) to try and dry and tame my locks. Every morning it’s the same routine, the same love and the same care. At the end of each morning, however, my hair can become one of two things (neither of which I have any control over): (1) a beautiful ‘do of smooth defined curls, perfectly framing my face, or (2) a wild mess of who-knows-what with random curls shooting off in every direction and frizz the size of Hong Kong with no resemblance of order, possibly bordering on “afro”.  Please note - as my sister kindly reminded me this morning - that the former rarely happens except when you either don’t care or you’re about to go to bed, and the latter nearly always happens especially when you care the most, like for a dinner or a date.

As much as I’d like to say that I remain calm in the face of adversity and accept my fate when my monkey becomes savage and uncontrollable, I do not. Being human, I confess it’s quite the opposite. Those of you who may have been present on such mornings (namely sisters and roommates) may grimace at the reflection of the wild raging monkey I myself become as a result of my unruly hair. It usually begins with weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth mixed with utter disbelief that this curse is mine to bear. Groans and moans are not uncommon and [mormon] profanities are flowing in a steady stream from my mouth. Phrases such as “WHY ME?”, “I HATE MY STUPID HAIR!” and “THAT’S IT I AM HONESTLY SHAVING MY HEAD! NO SERIOUSLY I’M GOING BALD!” are also thrown into this disgraceful display of frustration. Now, you may be thinking that this abysmal agony is quite overly-dramatic, but then again you don’t really understand. At this point I usually resort to the only option left at my disposal: locking my monkey in a cage (and by this I mean using a straightener to straighten my poor hair). I do not always look fondly on such fierce treatment of my monkey but what’s a girl to do? 

Although these tantrums and subsequent methods do occur, I would like to leave you with a more pleasant image than my little monkey trapped in a steel cage. So may I just state that on those rare occasions that my monkey is sitting calmly eating a banana, ie. my hair chooses to obey and be beautiful, I look around me at a sea of sleek straights and wavy bobs, and I’m grateful for my sweet unique curls.

I also sincerely hope that this post shines a light on those who are so completely ignorant of the life those cursed with a curly head o' hair must live.