112. My Mother's Hair

I feel in nostalgic mood, particularly as I find I'm 'turning into my Mother'! Does this happen to every woman? In one respect, however, I can never be my Mother. This is a picture of her at the age of two. Look closely and you will see the hair that dominated my life. When my baby daughter was born I didn't count toes and fingers; I looked for my mother's hair! Rebecca's hair is as beautiful as my mother's but inherited from her father's side of the family. It is thick, rich, dark and wavy. And, in between, there's me.

On my Clickpicks Blog you can see a picture of my mother 95 years later!


MY MOTHER'S HAIR

Soft
But disciplined.
Curly
But never frenzied.
Dark
But with a glinting sheen.
Thus was my Mother's hair.

Did it grow too long?
Snip snip with the scissors;
No looking-glass needed.
The coils
Stretched and then refolded on themselves
With perfect precision,
Bouncing a little
As they sprang back.

I inherited my Father's hair.
Of course.
Dull, thin, shapeless,
Dun-colured.

When I grew old enough to care
I realised that life wasn't worth living
Unless one had
My Mother's hair.

So started forty years of
Hair Taming.
Surely Lion Taming
Would have been easier!
It wanted to grow forward;
Punish it!
Force it to grow back!

The Permanent Wave never really existed;
It should have been called the Temporary Frizz.
It held sway for forty years.

Instruments of torture
Invaded my life.
In the chair
Noxious substances
Careered down my neck,
Stifling smells
Choked me.

And the result?
A brittle halo of wire-wool!
Dye it dark.
My Mother's hair was dark.
Touch it.
All wrong!
Surely this belonged to a doll!
And I was never doll-like.

The hair did nothing for the face.
Which was a shame
As it could have done with some help!

More instruments of torture!
Clamping teeth made of cruel metal
Gripping non-existent waves.
Fat slug-like pipe-cleaner 'thingies'
(Pipe-cleaners?)
With vicious spiky ends.
Oblong buckle-shaped hinged items
That held tight to strands of hair
Soaked in
Setting Lotion!

Twisting and turning in bed.
Metal cutting the ear-lobe!
Lump indenting the pillow!
Poor benighted husband
Sleeping with a porcupiny freak!
It must have been love!

Maybe tomorrow I would wake up
With my Mother's hair.

She never worried if the weather turned damp;
Her curls just became more girlishly wayward.
(Her daughter wore a plastic bonnet!)
She never cared if the wind blew her hair awry.
She just ran her fingers through it
And smiled.
(Her daughter, like the Queen, favoured a head-scarf!)

One day I realised I was growing old.
My face still needed help
But so did everyone elses'.
Comfort suddenly became more desirable
Than my Mother's hair.

Now I touch the flat, silky little cap
That is my hair
And I rejoice,
Because it is like a little brown bird's wing.

I have broken free

From my Mother's hair.