Frowsy and Hair Woes

When I was a little girl, Mom called unkempt hair, "frowsy." We'd be sent back in the house to take care of our frowsy hair, or she would say that her abundantly curly hair was frowsy.

I can't begin to demonstrate the extent of my frowsy history because these are photos that I have relegated to the trash without anyone seeing them, but here are some that survived the cut:

I started out with little hair at all, and after Suzanne's baby head-full of beautiful dark hair, that must have been a disappointment to my parents, but eventually I had white curls and was nicknamed, "Blondie," by Grandpa Sargent. And Blondie I was until puberty darkened and coarsened my hair to wiry waves. After a childhood of ponytails I resigned myself to short hair since the alternative was bushwoman, and there I would still be if not for chemotherapy and baldness.

Following chemotherapy, I was just happy to have hair

After a disastrous haircut in Chile (apparently "un poco" could mean, "I only want a little hair," when I intended it to mean, "Just take a little off), I vowed to find a haircutter on my return to the US who understood curly hair and who could make me look decent. I had the appointment before we left Chile.

Curly Hair Lessons were a revelation. "What? I can't wash my hair every day?!" "What? I shouldn't be brushing my hair?!" "What? I can't use just any old shampoo?!" "What?! I use an old t-shirt to blot my hair dry and not a towel?!" "What? I need products?!" "A diffuser?!" Weirdest of all, they don't cut wet hair by pulling sections away from the head and then cutting it geometrically--no, they just snip away at it when it's dry, like trimming a hedge. Yes, I am a bush woman.

I threw away my hairbrush and have had neither brush nor comb in my hair for a year and a half. Grandma Hattie bragged about her wash-and-wear hair. Now I've got it. I can't say I always look good, but when I don't it's because I totally forget my hair and that it needs an occasional cut.