My Hair is Brown by Katherine Holt
My hair is brown. There is no other word you can use to describe its color. No glamorous words like auburn or chestnut. Just brown. Certainly if I am sitting under a strong light and the angle is just right you may see a hint of blond or red but these occasions are rare. Brown is on my driver’s license. Brown is the word the police would use if I become a wanted criminal. Brown is the color of my hair.
Straight is the other word used to describe my hair. It will curl slightly, ever so slightly under the ends, but that does not change its status. So there you have it. My hair is brown and straight.
This is a fate I share with many women, ugly women, and beautiful women. It is not a bad fate. It’s far better than baldness. Yet these two simple monosyllabic words are the jumping off point of major family discussions.
To put it more bluntly, my family hates my hair. They have always hated my hair. From the moment I was born it has annoyed them. I was born with a head of hair. The only problem was it stood straight (of course) up. As my parents drove home from the hospital they stopped at the store and bought a jar of Dippity-Doo and there begins their obsession with my hair.
There was a brief moment in my life when my hair looked good. It was after three years of exposure to the California sun. My hair had achieved a golden color that my family, particularly my father still reminisces about. The Ohio sun is not as kind and so soon after moving here, my hair reverted back to its natural brown.
Of course my mother does have one quarrel with those golden days. It is the same quarrel all my conscious life. My hair was too long. My hair is always too long. That is why today their obsession with my hair is so intense. According to my mother I am committing the greatest of sins. I am growing out my hair. My mother believes that my hair always looks best short. She says the last great haircut I ever got was when she had complete control over my appearance and I would get a pixie cut. In other words, I had my last great hair when I was three years old.
Even today my mother always goes with me to the beauty parlor and supervises every snip of the scissors. When I’m fifty my mother will in all probability still be going to the beauty salon with me and she will be leaving the salon with the same feeling of disappointment at her advice being unheeded.
A week before my appointment she begins her routine. “Well what are we going to do with your hair this time?” When I answer, “Just a light trim” a look of sadness will pass across her face.
When my parents were reading Dr. Spock’s book on child care, they skipped the chapter on positive reinforcement and went right to hair care. That is why my life is filled with phrases like, “You could be a beautiful if only . . . . “
Straight is the other word used to describe my hair. It will curl slightly, ever so slightly under the ends, but that does not change its status. So there you have it. My hair is brown and straight.
This is a fate I share with many women, ugly women, and beautiful women. It is not a bad fate. It’s far better than baldness. Yet these two simple monosyllabic words are the jumping off point of major family discussions.
To put it more bluntly, my family hates my hair. They have always hated my hair. From the moment I was born it has annoyed them. I was born with a head of hair. The only problem was it stood straight (of course) up. As my parents drove home from the hospital they stopped at the store and bought a jar of Dippity-Doo and there begins their obsession with my hair.
There was a brief moment in my life when my hair looked good. It was after three years of exposure to the California sun. My hair had achieved a golden color that my family, particularly my father still reminisces about. The Ohio sun is not as kind and so soon after moving here, my hair reverted back to its natural brown.
Of course my mother does have one quarrel with those golden days. It is the same quarrel all my conscious life. My hair was too long. My hair is always too long. That is why today their obsession with my hair is so intense. According to my mother I am committing the greatest of sins. I am growing out my hair. My mother believes that my hair always looks best short. She says the last great haircut I ever got was when she had complete control over my appearance and I would get a pixie cut. In other words, I had my last great hair when I was three years old.
Even today my mother always goes with me to the beauty parlor and supervises every snip of the scissors. When I’m fifty my mother will in all probability still be going to the beauty salon with me and she will be leaving the salon with the same feeling of disappointment at her advice being unheeded.
A week before my appointment she begins her routine. “Well what are we going to do with your hair this time?” When I answer, “Just a light trim” a look of sadness will pass across her face.
When my parents were reading Dr. Spock’s book on child care, they skipped the chapter on positive reinforcement and went right to hair care. That is why my life is filled with phrases like, “You could be a beautiful if only . . . . “
posted by Margaret Holt | 10:04 AM
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