A Valentine to my wavy hair
Before I begin, let me preface this by saying that what I’m about to say may come off as melodramatic and even a tad self-indulgent. But I really couldn’t think of a more appropriate Hallmark holiday — barring Talk Like A Pirate Day, which falls sometime in September — than this Valentine weekend to articulate my newfound love for something I used to hate: my hair.
As far as I can remember, all I ever wanted was a head of stick-straight hair. The shock of locks I sport is far from Santo Niño-esque; however, it’s jet-black and coarse and tends to grow skyward when untamed. As it feathers at will, it’s a bitch on days when I’m not exactly feeling like a surfer stranded at a Joshua Tree wind farm — in 1989.
A Baby Jewfro
With the gift of hindsight and the concentration of a hawk-eyed sociologist, I was able to trace the borderline neurosis back to Boy Meets World, a sitcom I happened to grow up with in the Clinton-era ’90s. Cory Matthews, brought to life by Ben Savage, seemed to be the only character in the series with a dome of tight curls.
Though normal today, thanks to Shia LaBeouf, this baby Jewfro was a source of anxiety for Cory. In Season 1, he asks his best friend Shaun (Rider Strong) to reassure him that he’s not a Brillo head, only to be told that he was more of a Nerf head. (“You got curly hair. Big deal! Can we move on now?”) Of course, Topanga (Danielle Fishell) still loved Cory — forever! — but who was she to be all picky and sh-t? She was built like Rachael Ray.
‘Damn, Africa!’
Anyway, that silly spot of pop culture-induced envy underscored a Tyra-worthy cliché: You always want what you don’t have. To wit: blue-eyed girls want brown peepers. Asian kids try and act black. Kanye considers himself fashion. I was Seth Cohen, but I wanted to be Ryan Atwood. Or a ninja. To quote Kevin Gnapoor from Mean Girls, “Damn, Africa! What happened?” Note my habit of mixing metaphors and non sequiturs.
Coming to terms with the prosaic realities of my wavy quiff, I eventually found ways around it. When the Scottish band Travis broke out sometime last decade, I quickly copied lead singer Fran Healy’s ’do — a pre-fauxhawk cut called The Fin. (Soon after, a pre-Armani David Beckham would finally expose the world to The Fauxhawk and its the gravitational pull.) I was in Brighton, England during this mini-milestone, and I rushed to a high street barber shop — it was near a Waterstone’s, I believe — to order one. The look has been since immortalized as a passport photo.
Phony Tresses
Of course, the desire to possess an artfully disheveled moptop was still undeniable. Deep inside, I still wanted to be Johnny Ramone or someone else from a stupidly cool band that had “The” in its name and members with directional haircuts. (Julian Casablancas circa 12:51, I’m talking to you.) And so I did what any desperate person would do: I had my hair relaxed.
Since I like to keep my mane cropped anyway, the treatment wasn’t too obvious or obnoxious. At its best, my hair looked permanently professionally blow-dried. At its worst, I looked like a Jonas brother discovering the joys of a straightening iron.
Oddly enough, now I have a Holden Caulfield-like sixth sense about phony tresses. A bad rebonding job leaves a person — man or woman — looking like Cousin Itt crossed with Chad from Million Dollar Listing; their hairdos sway in chunks instead of strands. And when wet, newly straightened hair tends to take on the aroma of rotten eggs and the texture of grown-out dreadlocks. Vanity fail.
Do The Best With What You’ve Got
The key, apparently, is to work with your hair type and the shape of your face, not against them. You may have to kiss a lot of frogs, but finding a pro who will do his or her best with what you’ve got — versus one who will not-so-subtly suggest a series of pricey treatments — is worth it. Apart from shearing everything down to a crew cut or a flat top, barbers rarely get wavy hair right so I avoid them at all costs.
That said, I found a rad solution to all my hair hang-ups. I now ask my stylist to overtexturize my hair using thinning scissors. It sounds rather intimidating but the technique has allowed me to grow man bangs, which I mess up or sweep to either side; the longer they get, the softer and lighter they become. It’s nothing short of a miracle. As Phantom Planet’s Alex Greenwald once sang, “California, here we come!”
And what do you know — guys with straight hair are all of sudden copping curly or wavy locks. I’ve recently come across a few blogs — The Dandy Project, for instance — with tutorials on how to give yourself a coiled quiff. How’s that for trading places?
Again, it may be a bit odd that I chose this supposedly romantic time to talk about all of this, but acceptance — cough — is a huge part of love. And while we’re on the subject, I’m proud to say that I’ve likewise made peace with my skin color. See, I am a somewhat pale dude who’s always believed that he was a lot darker than he really was. A college friend called it a “psychological tan,” while I think of it more as reverse tanorexia. It’s a different love story altogether, one that I’ll probably write about next Valentine’s. So in the meantime, Happy V-Day, kids!
* * *
What are you up to this weekend? ginobambino.tumblr.com.
