My hair has often dictated my mood, especially in high school.
My earliest memory: I'm four standing in my grandma's kitchen gazing at the ceramic Dutch girl and boy figurines painted red, blue and yellow, hanging on the wall. She tells me they are images of me and my cousin, her first granddaughter/grandson. Grandma has me in her clutches, literally. She stares at me, we're eye to eye; she has a pincher grip on my chin. "Hold still. I'm only going to trim your bangs."
She runs a comb through my tangled tresses and I squirm. "You're tender-headed."
Yeah, well why didn't she lighten up? That certainly set my jaw and frown wrinkle.
When Grandma wasn't around, my mom did the dastardly deed, only she never stooped to my level. She had the same vise-grip chin hold, but she could never write on unlined paper without the words scrolling uphill. When she saw my lopsided bangs, she'd gasp and attempt to straighten the angle. Higher and higher she trimmed until I looked like I had a forehead mustache tuft.
Now if that's not bad enough, she wanted me to have banana curls for kindergarten. The curling iron had green painted wooden handles and a small metal barrel. When I saw the blue flame on the gas stove with no pot on the burner, I knew the singe wasn't far off. Mom heated the barrel, then wrapped a thick strand of my hair around it. She couldn't time it any better than she could cut straight. I hated the smell of burnt hair.
Last evening I went through a box of old stuff that has been tucked in the closet for years. The first thing I pulled out was that dumb curling iron. That was enough to evoke a nose wrinkling frown. But when I pulled out an old Barbie doll, I thought I'd hit the goldmine. I picked her up, turned her over and looked at the date on her neck; she was an oldie goldie, with platinum hair and a puckered, painted mouth.
I laid her on the desk, and when I picked her up again, she was bald. Not as in her wig fell off. Her hair disintegrated into fine blonde dust. It was enough to make me pucker up.