Portraits of Yesteryear: Curl Whisperer

This week’s portrait of yesteryear comes to you circa the 1980s, the best decade there ever was.

I came across this picture as I aimlessly searched archives for my hairstyles of the past.

That’s me in the bathtub. The other girl, whose hair is much more blazingly red than mine, happens to be my sister. And she will put curses on me with a voodoo doll once she sees this post. Oh well.

Anyway I’m going to tell you right now that I’m somewhat in mourning. You see, I was born with curly hair. Obviously. I don’t think my mother knew how one should style or cut such a poof ball. The only curls my family or next of kin knew were the kind you could get at a beauty parlor. So I guess mother just figured a short cut would minimize frustrations.

Luckily or unluckily this curly hair of mine went away for most of my growing up years. It was simply wavy, but still obnoxious. Then those blessed teenage years hit, and my hair reverted back to my three year old self. So betwixt trying to figure out how to be a teenager and also wade the woeful waters of pre-womanhood, I also had to try and do something with my hair.

It was all very stressful for my hormonal self. I’m sure you can empathize. And as I’m sure some you can also understand, I developed a great method that usually involved just not washing it very much. Grease is actually a friend to frizz. They co-exist well. Water and shampoo are the foes. Straws don’t help much either. Too pointy.

So I spent the next several years fighting the frizz, and denying the curls. Until one day I just decided to embrace it all. I let the curl do what it wanted to do with the help of a lot of gel, and the compliments came pouring in. I started college as one of those feisty looking curly haired girls, and a redhead to boot. It was a magical time really.

But as a woman has tendency to do, I got bored with it all and wanted a change. I became enamored with a little thing called a straight iron. I and it became the best of friends and I ditched those ringlets for the frizz free sleekness of straight hair.

Of course sometimes I’d miss the carefree-ness of curly hair and I'd go back. We’d have a week long rendezvous then I went slinking back to the heat of the iron. But I took comfort in knowing that my spirals were there waiting for me if I ever wanted to let them come out and play.

But now back to why I am in mourning. It seems as though having two children, the pregnancy hormones or perhaps the breastfeeding. Maybe it was that rotten grapefruit I touched a few months back. Oh who really knows why! But it appears as though my curls are in a dying state, and have been sucked of life. They are not what they once were. Surely I can use gobs of product and my curls are semi-glory days, but in a desperate sequel kind of way. Sort of like that last Indiana Jones movie.

It’s all very depressing, the loss of one of my identities. It happened to be the Husband’s favorite one. Such a travesty for all parties involved! But don’t think I’m letting go easily. No. My stubborn identity has decided to try her hand at being a curl whisperer. Step One: try out this whole no-poo thing and see if that can harness enough moisture to bring baby back. And by no-poo I mean no shampoo. It’s a revolution of sorts I hear. Step Two: rededicate myself to having longer hair so the curls have room to breath. This will be very hard for my claustrophobic, irritable shoulders.

I’ve also rededicated myself to having a large claw foot bath tub at some point in the future. For one, I could recreate this portrait of yesteryear some twenty plus years later. How fun would that be? And for two, those tubs are great fun when you want to simulate ocean waves while pretending to be Ariel. Trust me.