A whisper, “Medusa.”
Muffled snickers and laughs I barely hear and try to ignore.
Again, a whisper, “Medusa, can I rat your hair?” from the person sitting behind me in class.
I wonder again why I was born with ugly, wild, dark, untamed, curly hair. Why couldn’t I have been born with straight, BLONDE hair like my classmates?
I’m reluctant, but in the spirit of cooperation let them rat my hair.
I sit on the floor as my Dad blow dries my hair. I hate having my hair blow dried. I hate that my scalp is tender and hurts when he tries to brush it.
I know it’s 20 degrees outside or colder and I can’t go to bed with wet hair. But I don’t like it.
The brush gets tangled and finally the handle breaks off. The next day, Dad insists that I get a short haircut.
There was a little girl who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead
When she was good, she was very, very good,
And when she was bad she was horrid.
– Mother Goose
I remember my Nana quoting this to me one day as a small child. I assume it was a day when I tended toward horrid rather than good yet I don’t remember the reason just the rhyme.
It was very appropriate for both my hair and my attitude.
Sweating I take a break from dancing and walk toward the club entrance for some air.
Some guy, “Your hair is gorgeous.”
Guy, “I’ll pay you $400 if you let me videotape while I cut it.”
Me, “Umm…no thanks.”
See you soon!