snarly

When we were young, Mary Skabina would come out to our house and cut all five kids’ hair.  I hated when she came.  It wasn’t Mary that I hated, or even getting my hair cut.  It was how ashamed they made me feel about my hair. 

“Your hair is so snarly!”  Mary would say.

“Oh Rachel!  I told you to brush your hair,” my mother would say in embarrassment.

The thing is, I would brush my hair.  I would spend time in the bathroom just before she was to come, brushing my hair – stressed about the inevitable conversation to come about my shamefully snarly hair.  But they never did approve – and it was the same mantra every visit.

“Your hair is so snarly!”

“Oh Rachel!  I told you to brush your hair.”

When I was 20, I went to a hair dresser – I was new in town and the woman didn’t have time for me.  My hair took too long to cut because it was so fine and thick.  She got annoyed at some point and handed me the hair dryer to dry my own hair because she had customers waiting.  I felt so ashamed, I dutifully took the blow dryer and then paid and tipped her for having to deal with my difficult hair.

My hair cutting criteria has always been very simple: don’t make me feel ashamed.  If the hair dresser said something nice about my hair and colored it purple, I would have said thank you.

My first hair cut experience in Turkey was life changing.  It’s mostly a male profession here, and I went to Tolga’s barber.  They lifted my long strands of blond hair, nodding in approval.  Three people worked on my hair simultaneously clipping, brushing , and styling.  I felt regal.

I still only care about how it makes me feel, over how I look.  Be nice, say nice things to me, and do whatever you want to my hair. 

The difference is, I actually love getting my hair cut now.  It feels like such a luxury to me – I could drool when they wash my hair.  My scalp is not sensitive at all, so brush away!  When my hair is clipped, my head feels lighter and cleaner.  If I’m getting my hair colored or highlighted – it’s three hours of me time.  They serve me tea, or coffee, or a cold drink.  I could read a book, or sit and do nothing.  It is not boring to me, it’s bliss. 

I know its ridiculous, but I am inspired to write poetry every time I get my haircut, if just feels that good to me.

And so, I finally got my haircut before a holiday party last weekend.  I asked the barber to cut quite a bit, maybe 5 inches.  Usually, the barber tells me no – they won’t cut my hair that much because it will make them too sad.  And I, of course, never insist because its still more about the feelings for me than the look.

This time, the barber agreed – he understood: 8 ½ months pregnant, two small kids – managing my hair was low on the priority list.   My hair long blondish hair was constantly twisted up into a pile on the top of my head where the ends were breaking and I no longer had the energy to brush and dry so much hair.

Hair cut and styled, ready for the school's annual dinner!

I showed my mother my haircut sometime later, saying how good it felt.  I joked,

“You know how they say a woman’s hair is her glory?  Well mine was one glorious mess that the hair dressers finally agreed to cut.”

“Are you still not brushing your hair?  You know Tolga, she used to always have snarly hair when she was younger …”

I plastered on a blank smile and didn’t say anything.  My father, who listens better than my mother, knew this was a sore memory of mine and poked fun at my non-response,

“Don’t get feisty now.”

And a little later . . .

Mom: “Look at Tomris’ beautiful hair.  It’s so long.  You know Tolga, her hair reminds of Rachel’s when she was younger.  Except Rachel’s was always snarly.”         

Me:  …