Call me Curly. Or rather, please don’t. It’s not a nick-name I appreciate, only because it calls attention to a feature that is part of the intrinsic me, like Shortie, or Slim, or Red. Or Jew, Mick or Jap – not necessarily a put-down, but limiting, labeling. But it’s not about self-acceptance. I’ve come to terms with my curly hair, even though on occasion, I’d like to change it. But it takes having curly hair, I think, to really see the weight and symbolism of hair in our society – many societies, and what it means to not fit in.

At a recent wedding, in the pews ahead of me, I surveyed woman after woman, girl after girl, all with straight hair. The only other curly head besides me was my sister, Maura, and a few gray, permed grannies.  Long or shoulder length, blonde or brown, straight hair ruled supreme, although it was not, I assume, all natural. At a bar mitzvah, my husband and I sat behind two rows of 7^th grade students: same thing, not a curl to be seen. In this case, however, some of the middle-aged Jewish ladies had a few tastefully styled curls: ethnic, but not too ethnic. Straight is in. For white ladies, Spanish ladies, Asian ladies and black ladies in the magazines. Ditto movies. Only Oprah once in a while shows a few curls for the sake of variety. I realize, of course, not too long ago, that curly perms were the rage, but it didn’t last all that long, and I don’t see that making a come back.

Growing up with curly hair in the late 60’s and 70’s, I’m well acquainted with all the tools of the trade to straighten hair: the ironing board, the large curlers, the occasional empty orange can substitute, wearing a knit cap to keep the hair down and undercover. Lots of hair spray.  A lot of time, for fleeting results at best. My hair was never truly straight, only looser waves, and lots of bounce. Yet, an ounce of humidity, and it was all over, all that effort for nothing. I was not, although I knew some women, who would avoid the outdoors or any other location that might mess up their do – it just wasn’t worth it. Now, the technology has improved. Better chemical straighteners, or the ceramic hair presses that relax the hair without too much damage.  Yet, it’s the same principle: spend lots of time and money to change, and then fret about the results. But at some point, I think in California, I gave up even trying, realizing it didn’t mean that much to me.

Oh, there are times my hair drives me crazy. It’s truly a barometer. In Arizona, I had the softest, most relaxed curls, bringing lots of compliments. In the hot humid weather, my hair floats like a cloud, and gives new meaning to the word frizz. The funny thing is that, in my genealogy research, I came across a French Canadian ancestor with the nick-name Le Friese – the frizzy-headed one.  Could those genes really survive generation after generation?  I supposed they must, and they do. After a little investigation, I came across one family researcher who speculated that this Jean Cote dit Le Friese, was in fact the product of an Indian and black relationship, conveniently undocumented. The things you find! No question, there is a history of curly hair on my father’s side, lots of it. The family myth was that this curly hair relaxed in age, esp. after childbirth; so far, not so. 

To have curly hair means that no one at any time will be able to say of me, “She was thoroughly groomed, every hair in place.” No, not me.  These curls will be with me, I suppose, to my grave.  I think I like the aspect of curly hair that says “different, perhaps ethnic, natural, untamed, and perhaps a little wild.”