 |
| No |
 |
| Yes |
Remember the 'fashion' dolls of the fifties?
The straight-standing, frozen featured, supposedly beautiful dolls?
That creative people crocheted or knitted clothes for.
Or sunk into cakes.
Those dolls.
Well, besides being known for arriving 'without wardrobe', they were also known for their pre-styled, fine, beautiful hair.
Hair that was not comb-able.
That stuck together in a tight ball and defied any efforts at style change.
I know that hair well.
Because I was born with the same stuff.
Fine.
Soft.
And matted permanently together.
Candy-fluff hair, my Mom called it.
Okay, 'candy fluff', I loved.
Candy fluff on my head?
Not so much.
Every morning, and several times throughout the day, Mom would come at me with a comb.
Or some other implement guaranteed to make my hair behave.
None of them worked.
All of them . . . hurt.
Mom: “Diane, hold still! I'm almost done!”
Me: “Waaah!”
And so it went.
As I grew, my hair . . . changed. Subtly.
Oh, it was still fine and soft.
But it no longer stuck together in one fuzzy lump.
No.
Now it stuck together in several fuzzy lumps all over my head.
Sigh.
Mom: “Diane, hold still! There's just one more!”
Me: “Waaah!”
Finally, by about age eight, I outgrew the 'fuzzies'.
But made another important discovery.
Yes, my hair no longer matted together, defying all attempts at style.
And it was now longer and straighter.
But . . . it still hurt to comb it.
Yes. I was a hair wuss.
Mom: “Diane, hold still! Your hair will look beautiful!”
Me: “Waaah!”
Finally, in frustration one day, she uttered the fateful words, “Diane, don't you know you have to suffer to be beautiful?”
I stared at her. “Really?”
She nodded sagely.
Wow.
I put it together.
If I suffered, I would be beautiful.
It was that simple.
This went on for several years.
Every day, I suffered.
Every day, I looked in the mirror.
Nope. Same face as yesterday.
Finally, at age fifteen, I challenged my mother's hypothesis.
Me: “Mom! I've suffered! Why aren't I beautiful!?”
Mom (In true 'Mom' form): “Oh, honey, you ARE beautiful!”
Right. Waaait. I see where this is going . . .
Moving ahead several years . . .
I was combing my granddaughter's fiery red, naturally curly hair.
ME: “Kyra, hold still! I'm almost done!”
Kyra: “Waaah!”
Me: “Don't you know you have to suffer to be beautiful?”
She stared at me. “Really?”
And so the story continues . . .
Diane's Law: Sayings (and hair) are inherited, and will be passed on through the ages.
ReplyDeleteYes. ;)
DeleteI relate to this! My naturally curly hair was thick and tangly, nearly impossible to get a comb through. Modern techniques and products have improved things greatly, but so did natural thinning as I got older. I can sometimes see that as a blessing.
ReplyDeleteYeah. The natural thinning. Now I wish for my fuzzy hair!
DeleteYou're lucky your mom just wanted to comb your hair, my mom used to have my unruly curls cut, and I hated short hair.
ReplyDeleteMe, too! I always want long, beautiful hair. Now I live vicariously through my grandchildren...
DeleteToo funny. I hated it when my mum fussed with my hair!
ReplyDeleteRight?!
DeleteThe funny thing about this is that I remember it. And now I've got a granddaughter who turned 5 this year. For her first two years she wouldn't allow anyone to comb or brush her hair. She finally had to make the connection that if she wanted to look pretty she had to work at it, or allow someone else to work at it...
ReplyDeleteA-ha! And the next generation gets it! ;)
DeleteMy hair is wavy and tangles. It wasn't fun then, and i braid it and keep it out of the way now as it's the only way.
ReplyDelete