Curly Girls

There was a little girl

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

There was a little girl,

Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,

She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

My grandmother used to quote this poem to me. She used to quote it a lot. I like to think it was because I often had a curl in the middle of my forehead. I'm sure she wasn't trying to tell me I was horrid. Surely not.

What poor little girl was Henry talking about? She was probably just irritated because some well-meaning person brushed her hair too hard in an effort to detangle it. Or, maybe it was a humid day and her normally perky curls were a frizzy mess. I'm sure she wasn't all that bad. Certainly not horrid. Surely not.

But, being a curly girl myself I can totally justify her actions if she were. Bad hair can really put you in a bad mood. A significant part of my life has been spent lamenting over, dealing with, fighting against and learning to cope with my curly locks.

Little curly-headed AmyLocks

 

When I was young, my mom would wash my hair in the evening and send me to bed with damp hair wound around old, clean socks. Once my hair was unraveled the next morning, I would have these long “boing boing” curls. My friends delighted in sitting behind me in school so they could pull them straight and watch them bounce back into shape.

As I got older, the sock treatment stopped, and I was left to deal with my unruly hair myself. In high school I curled(!) my hair with hot rollers because they smoothed my hair out a bit. But, I was still subject to the dreaded spring rains of Alabama and the high humidity that keep your skin dewy and your hair frizzy more days than not. Aqua Net Super Extra Hold was my best friend. I'm sorry for all the damage I did to the ozone.

It wasn't until I was good and grown that I had my hair straightened for the first time. I left for a haircut and came home a different woman. My husband, Bobby, actually stopped in his tracks when he saw me. This lasted for a day before I got a weird wave right on top of my head. Another day or so and I had to wash my hair, beginning anew with my coarse, bumpy mane. It was hard to say goodbye to that smooth, straight Amy.

I often want the “straight-haired Amy” back. I could spend enormous amounts of time, energy and money. But, I'm too lazy to deal with it. My family is relieved. Surprisingly, they LIKE “curly-headed Amy”. So, I settle for having straight hair a couple of days a year, after hair cuts by my magician of a hairstylist where she transforms me into a sleek version of myself.

I once bought a straightening iron with birthday money sent to me by my grandmother (the same grandmother who quoted the horrid little girl poem). When she learned what I had bought with HER money, she threatened not to send any more monetary birthday gifts. My children look at me differently for a while after I've had my hair straightened, like they're trying to figure out if I'm the same person. I guess I feel a little different with straight hair, a bit more polished and put together.  People don't recognize me. And, that's fun, for a while.

But, then, I kind of want to go back to the real “me”. The me who doesn't live in constant fear of the weather being too moist. The me who can roll out of bed, scrunch my hair with wet hands and head out. The “me” I'm more comfortable in.

My son, Davis, once smacked his cheek into our swing set (with or without the help of his twin brother) and had to get stitches. At the hospital, a cute, young nurse hopped onto the table beside him as a distraction from the uncomfortable and scary procedure taking place an inch from Davis' eye. She said, “Where'd you get those beautiful blue eyes?” Davis huffed in irritation and said, “God just made me that way.”

Despite all the frizzy days, the hopes dashed in salons where I left with my hair looking remarkably like it did when I went in, the hair products with wildly false claims to smooth my locks, and the comb for curly hair that just about changed my life, I'm glad God made me this way. I'm glad even though I scared (yes, scared!) a friend at church one particularly humid day. I was walking down the hallway when my friend suddenly looked up and saw me. She kind of gasped, then said, “I had no idea your hair was so curly.”

My husband doesn't take kindly to such reactions. While flipping through TV channels one night, we happened upon something about people with curly hair. The announcer started saying something about the perception of people with curls. Apparently, we're viewed as less dependable. I can't tell you what they said after that because my sweet, protective and annoyed husband changed the channel saying, “They don't know WHAT they're talking about.”

I'm growing more thankful and understanding about the way God has made me; physically, spiritually and emotionally. Curly hair is a big part of my identity (and literally a BIG part of my appearance). I should change my profile picture on this blog because that's definitely straight-haired Amy you see when you visit here. I commiserate with those who just want to slick their hair back into a ponytail or those who haven't learned to just leave their hair alone, knowing it will eventually calm down. Even the name of this blog comes from a nickname referring to my thick, curly hair, the only nickname I've ever liked. A wise and wonderful, fellow missionary would often hug me and fondly say, “Well, hello, Amy Locks.”

 

But, I really just hope to one day have the attitude of my son, Allen. Also blessed with very curly hair, Allen likes growing his hair until he can brush it out (a no no for those of us with curls) into a round halo. Then, it's time for a cut. His friends notice and lament that his curls are gone. He just laughs, knowing they'll soon be back and says, “Everyone loves the curls.”