The mane world’s divided into two camps - the straight-haired and the curly-haired. Occasionally members from the two will bump into one another - at a party, on a street, in a cafe, at a funeral... And sooner or later, they will wind up expressing an affiliation to the other side...The poker straight-haired girl will be like, "My hair’s so boring. Blah..." The bouncy curly- haired girl will go, "My hair’s wild. I just can’t get it to behave... especially when I want it to."
Personally, I find this exchange cute. However, my heart bleeds for the curly-haired girl. (For one, ‘cos my hair’s the erratic, perennially PMSing, wavy-curly category.) For that reason, I’m not able to completely empathize with the straight-haired girl. I mean what does she have to complain about? Hair’s boring? At least you can depend on yours to not look like a cat got electrocuted on your head. I recall an interesting conversation with an old friend ,who has super-sleek, polished hair. She says, "Straight hair’s like having this really hot boyfriend who’s also very, very dull." Uh-huh? Well curly hair’s like having this wild beast with tentacles sprouting in all directions for a boyfriend defying all acceptable laws of conduct... Who’s also a freakin' weather barometer for Pete’s sake!
Enough dramatics...I’ll cut to the chase. I kind of have a love-hate relationship with my hair (bordering towards hate most of the times). There are times when I can’t take my eyes off the bouncy cascading spiral curls that make me ME. But left alone for fifteen minutes in Mumbai humidity and they’ve turned into, literally, a monstrous web of lies. Trust me. I can never catch two mirror reflections of mine narrating the same story, even with all things being equal.
Mostly, I lead a follicular dual life and just blow-dry them out of sight, the customary tangles done away with. I’m so damn attached to my blow dryer that I spent a whole day whining and hunting down a multi-plug extension cord on a vacation in Spain and didn’t rest until my bangs were underneath the comforting hot stream of air that has so much to promise.
Don’t get me wrong. I have nothing against curls and embracing who I am. But at times my hair’s a freaking nightmare...all the frizzy kinks and antiquated curls come to life and haunt me for the rest of the day...and if somebody dares ask, "What have you done to your hair?" or if a vacuous hairdresser would say, "Why don’t you get it straightened?", I swear, a part of me just dies a little every time.
And the inevitable happened. I got exhausted from the subservience to straighteners and thought of giving myself some personal gratification by moving over to the other side. I got my hair relaxed. The verdict? Even though initially I was thrilled to bits about how organized and professional my hair was, I got weary of the same look everyday. And along with the glossy sheen and sleeker locks, came various stages of hair trauma, the worst being raggedy Bob Marley-ish kind of mops that were stuck somewhere in no man’s land, totally nondescript.
But it occurred to me that there’s perhaps something innately wrong with the way we’ve dismissed naturally curly hair as messy, zany, loud — a sign of laziness and non-maintenance. With the right haircare routine, which no two hairdressers seem to agree upon, I should be able to feel confident in it — which for me translates to leaving it the fuck alone and not feel like I’m stepping out sans pants every time I go out with my natural curls.
I recall every pop-culture reference that portrays the curly-haired woman as carefree, loose, bohemian, wild, lazy, eccentric… Pretty Woman had Julia Roberts sporting the most gorgeous head of curls but well, she was a hooker and also using a safety pin to keep her romper from falling. I recall a photo shoot at my workplace when it was diplomatically suggested that I do something to my hair so it looks a little more clean. I cringe everytime when somebody compares my hair to a popular brand of noodles.
Then it struck me why my hair bothered me so much. The perception that revolves around curly hair is that the kinks are non-conforming and deviant. It may take an army of products to get it to behave but even then, a curly mane has a mind of its own. You may rest your head on silk pillows and use giant, futuristic gadgets to diffuse your curls but there’s no knowing that it will not turn into a knotty battlefield if the wind doesn’t blow the way you want it to. (Think slow-mo, gently-swaying movements of perfectly hydrated curls.)
What curly hair is - it’s bold and intimidating. It won’t shut up so that the air’s pleasant and everybody can plant a sweet smile on their faces. It won’t keep up appearances— no sir, let’s just call a spade a spade. It won’t throw a glossy halo over your head Tresemme style so that it can temporarily reflect rainbows and unicorns as you strut down a ramp, nice and easy on the eyes. You may love it, you may hate it. It doesn’t give a fuck either way.
What it will give you is uniqueness (well each curly mane is a novel in itself), an undeniable character, more inches in height ( try measuring it out-of-bed), an other-worldly charm (think Botticelli ringlets), an endearingly childish appeal, an everlasting je-ne-sais-quoi…
And if you’re still left thinking about whether it is acceptable or not with all the cultural stereotypes coming to haunt you, well you know, for starters, stop watching movies and walk down that sunny street, wearing your big gorgeous curls loose.
The halo of frizz is becoming.
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