Hairy Tales: Volume 2

The answer to all my hair-related prayers came via an unlikely miracle worker. Enter L's Hair and Nails, the neighborhood salon where one's weekly quota of gossip, mani/pedis, facials and various hair services will be fulfilled by L and her trusty army of shrieking Vietnamese relatives.

My relationship with L and her charming establishment has always been bitter sweet. To sum it up simply, L and I share a relationship not unlike that of a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law: although she does nothing but criticize, it's only because she really does care. To this day, after 5+ years of patronage, she still addresses me by "girl," and I have yet to get a facial where I am not subject to disapproving noddings of heads and greetings with loud squeals of "Look, a lot, a lot!" in reference to my apparent gold mine of blackheads. For all her shortcomings and the severe damage done to my ego over the course of our relationship, L has been an important part of my life, primping me up for all of my most major milestones: graduation, prom, senior portrait, etc. Without fail, she managed to make me look good, and I am grateful.

For several years, I had started frequenting L's to get my hair shampooed. In this time frame my already wild hair had managed to become even more stubborn and totally freaked out, to the point where even my indefatigable mother was finally forced to concede defeat and seek help in taming my mane. Whenever I would drop by for these monthly washes, the staff of L's was starting to learn a valuable lesson regarding my hair and who really was the boss......

In the beginning, owing to the fact that my mother was a generous tipper, L's minions would fight tooth and nail over who would have sole access to minister to my hair, thereby absorbing the full tip for their already bulging pockets. After a few valiant struggles with my hair which resulted in some pretty nasty wrist injuries and damage to expensive salon combs, however, L and her minions were starting to get the picture and would run away in fear as soon as I entered the salon. "Too much hair, girl. You cut it off please?" they would plead, as they bullied my mother into paying $10 above the normal price for a shampoo in order to even come near me and my hair. Now it would take all three hairdressers at a time, each wielding a terrifying section, to calm the raging beast.

There came a point in time when even L couldn't take it any more. Disappointed by my mother's and my firm insistence that I keep the length of my hair, L finally came up with a solution that we all could live with: Japanese straightening. A gentle alternative to other permanent straightening methods out on the market, L insisted that the technique would make my hair soft, supple, and more importantly, obedient. I had had doubts about straightening my hair before, as other pioneering friends had also tried the technique and returned looking as if they had risen half-way from a jaunt in the electric chair. Desperate times call for desperate measures, however, and I gathered my courage to try, at least, all the while preparing myself to accept the worst that would inevitably occur.

On a Wednesday morning I trudged over to L's, water bottle and books in tow. Yes, I said books, not book; three weighty, glorious tomes on the scale of War and Peace and I still had plenty of time to spare once I got through them. L scheduled me for her slowest day, and by the looks of it she had probably even shut down the store to other customers in order to concentrate her resources on the gargantuan task that lay ahead. For a good 7 and a half hours L and the minions subjected me to a mind-numbing sequence of events: flatten hair using straight-iron, coat generously with noxious, booger-colored cream, allow to sit till locks are plastered to scalp in a hardened helmet, rinse, lather and repeat again. The fumes from the cream, coupled with the shrill, incessant Vietnamese chatter that attacked my ears from all fronts were inducing a migraine headache that would give even a hangover from a bachelor's party a run for its money, and I found myself slipping into an exhausted stupor. Next thing I remember, I'm being whacked in the shoulder and a hand mirror is being pressed in my hand, while L proclaims that the torure is finally over and that I should take a look.

When I finally screwed up enough courage to look in the mirror, the first thing that popped into my mind was that someone had rigged the mirror. I did not recognize the person that was staring back at me, jaw fully distended in disbelief. If you've ever seen the first Princess Diaries movie, I was totally having my own personal Anne Hathaway-esque transformation moment (and you thought the movies were just make-believe!!!!). I really did look as if I had had a "head transplant."

As I walked out of the salon that day, I had my first taste of what it feels like to let one's hair out, free to frolic joyfully in the breeze. The next few weeks were full of other firsts as random people at my high school, who up until that point absoulutely, certainly did not even know of my existence, came up to me and congratulated me on how great my hair looked. Even our circle of family friends was overjoyed, taking it in turns to pet my new and improved mane to allay their suspicions that it wasn't just a wig, all while raving on about how gorgeous I looked.

To be completely honest, all the attention, and that too over a new hairdo, which after all is just dead tissue, was more than a bit disconcerting. I quickly ignored the uneasiness, however, and settled into my new life, living out the scenarios in the countless hair commercials that I had drooled jealously over for the past 18 years. Only difference now was that I was the girl with the shimmering curtain of billowy hair, and it was everyone else's turn to drool jealously.

Despite my new-found happiness, I continued to experience this unidentifiable, uncomfortable feeling in the back of my mind, sort of like the feeling you get when you leave home and all that pops into your head are questions of whether you left the stove on, left the door unlocked, forgot to shut off the faucet, etc.. My apprehensions were finally revealed to me when I received an email from a cousin, whose opinion I value greatly. He wrote to the effect that he would miss my cute curls, and I was completely floored. All I had heard since I got my hair changed was how beautiful I looked; never once had I heard the same thing when my hair was still curly.

It was then that I realized what a fool I had been. I sold out on an idealogy I promised myself that I would always keep, namely to respect and love myself as I was. I promised myself that I would never change who I was or what I looked like just because of what other people thought, and yet, here I was, believing other people's lies that just because I had changed my hair-do, I was suddenly beautiful. The truth is that I was the same beautiful person with or without my curly hair, and I still can't believe that I let people convince me otherwise.

The moral to this incredibly long-winded saga is this: tell the woman/man/child/friend in your life that they are beautiful, unique, and just plain wonderful just as they are. I am sure that they are aware of this truth, but a little public recognition every once in a while doesn't hurt either.