It simply can't control itself.
Twice a year you get a stylist to tame it--snip snip with scissors, woosh woosh with the blow dryer and rounded brush to iron out those kinks and curls into smooth perfection. For a few days, you have movie hair.
But it's not your real hair. More like a wig or an outfit that isn't really you but one you sometimes put on anyway, just in case it is--and know full well it never will be. Like that prim sleek office dress that holds you too close.
No, your hair is a riot of half-formed curls and twisty waves that never quite commit to being corkscrew ringlets or soft waves. It simply wants to have both and so colonizes your head with thick, wild waves going it whatever direction they want to.
It abhors barrettes and hairspray, too many hair clips and hair straighteners. It rebels against too much product and not enough down time. Even when you coax it into a sophisticated up-do for work, you know it only temporarily subdues itself for those hours between teaching and grading and then, once home, practically pushes the pins out of its sultry coils.
It will not let you be anything but you. And when you look at it first thing in the morning--a twisted riot of auburn curls half-smashed from hugging the pillows all night--you realize that this is you. You are your loud curls that don't like to be contained, your thick hair that is more comfortable naked than tamed into politeness with those pomades you never really know how to use.
You are bare feet and uncombed curls. Wild thoughts and wild hair.
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