I never appreciated my hair. Dirt brown in color, it was
thick, but fine—straight, but it frizzed in humidity. I spent most of my adolescence trying to beat
it into submission through overly regular home perms and the occasional
shearing to remove the resulting damage.
Added to my misery was the fact that I was woefully inept at
styling. Curling irons, flat irons, hot rollers—none of them worked in my
hands. Insertion of a ponytail holder was really the only option I’d mastered.
I wavered between short and shoulder length for much of my
early adulthood, growing it out only to cut it all off again. I was a regular
in the hair coloring aisle and—for a brief period of poor investments just
prior to marriage—in the chair of a high-end salon to maintain the burnt sienna
shade I’d come to favor.
I decided in my thirties that highlights and layers would be
the best way to add movement and interest to my limp locks. This bold move
resulted ever-lightening brassy streaks that illuminated an unfortunate S-curve
on the back of my head. My hair was a vexing and perpetual source of angst.
And then I lost it to chemo. The oncologist warned me that my hair would fall out, so I cut it into a layered bob in anticipation. When the
first clump fell, I was more fascinated than upset.
I did not shed a single tear when the stylist set the razor
to a quarter inch and buzzed off the remains of my suddenly dead locks. Even when
that crew cut thinned to a handful of strays, I maintained my equilibrium.
I cheerfully put on my bandannas—usually with big earrings
to prove that I was still a girl—because I knew the fundamental rule of hair: it
grows. I heard tales of women whose hair came back entirely gray, or wildly
curly, or somehow vastly different from its original form, but I wasn’t
worried. It was just hair.
A few months after chemo ended, my hair did return. It
curled into haphazard ringlets on my scalp, lustrous and shiny in a warm shade
of brown that I never would have imagined to be its natural color. I was so
taken by its presence that I forgot to be annoyed by its quirks.
It currently hangs below my shoulders, softly straight like
a curtain on a window rod. I still get a little thrill from running my fingers
through its luxurious length, or pulling it back into a ponytail to get it off
my neck on hot summer days.
I get it trimmed every eight weeks, occasionally blow it dry when I need to expedite air drying, but other than that, I don’t give it a
second thought. Turns out, my hair behaves best when I leave it alone. And that
suits me just fine.