Curly hair don't care?

In the past when I get sick and tired of my big, unmanageable, curly hair I would just shave it off. The last time I did that I found myself staring longingly at someone on the train with a mop of curly hair and wished that I’d left mine to grow. Right now my hair is long, unruly and annoying sometimes. It’s a lot of work and more pain than I care for, but I also quite like it. I think it suits me.

This wasn’t always the case. In high school my curly hair was one of the most bitterly painful truths of my life. Now, this may not seem like a big deal, because curly hair is cool now. When I was going to high school it certainly wasn’t. My experience of being part of a coloured community on the Cape Flats was that features which were considered white were highly valued. This especially went for naturally straight hair and green or blue eyes. The girls with “real” straight hair seemed to have an aura about them. They didn’t have to go to all that effort that the rest of us had to go through. For me this would be the ritual of blowdrying and straightening my hair for about two hours. Back then hot irons weren’t as popular so often my hair would be put into rollers, which I would wait around for hours to dry, then it was blown out so as to straighten it. The effortlessness of those who naturally had straight hair seemed to indicate that they were just better than me. Also, the best boys, the ones worth having crushes on always had green or blue eyes, just by the way!

I remember once being admonished by a boy in class for having the audacity to wear my hair curly. His words went something along the lines of, “Why don’t you make yourself look descent?”  If his comment hurt my feelings I can’t remember that part maybe because any hurt feelings were trumped by the indignation I felt that this particular person, who I had utterly no respect for, dared to be so rude to me. He wasn’t the only boy who was funny about my hair. I was a very angry teenager and expressed that anger in what I believed were witty retorts. I was actually just really mean. As a result I often enjoyed exchanging insults with some of my male classmates.  No one pulled punches and the fact that I was a girl didn’t seem to matter. Until one day I wore my hair straight. Something strange seemed to overcome my classmates. They looked and talked to me differently.  The animosity in their voices had been replaced with a softer, gently tone.  It was as if they were shocked that this was me, or this is what I could be.  It was like one of those teen movies with Freddie Prince Jr. Where the ugly duckling isn’t actually ugly, she is in fact the very pinnacle of teen beauty. People start treating her with respect and also she is no longer in need of a personality. They were being nice to me and I didn’t like it.

The message I got that day was that it didn’t matter who I was. I had changed my hair not my personality and yet here I was being treated completely differently. This also frustrated me a great deal, because I so badly wanted to be seen and valued, but not for this particular reason. As much as this angered me it wasn’t this incident that made me start to like my hair. It upset me that much of my value seemed to be placed on this one thing, but I also didn’t like my hair myself.  If I could have exchanged my dark, curly locks for straight hair I would have. My inability to naturally conform to that standard of beauty just felt like it was my cross to bear. I didn’t want to pretend to be something I wasn’t although it was something I longed for so badly.  For me there was this sense of being a different person when my hair was straight. A better me. I remember being a child and one of the symptoms of having my hair blown out was this overwhelming desire to constantly twist my head so that my hair would flip, like in the shampoo adverts. I don’t why I did this. It felt so light and freeing.  I guess I knew people would look at me and find me pretty. At the same time being fully aware that I wasn’t pretty just as I was. It felt like a cruel fate to me.

Fast forward to my third year at university where I was obsessed with Karen O and her signature hair. I wanted those dark, heavy bangs that hung just above her eyes. So I cut my hair. In no way did I look like Karen O, BUT for about a week or two I was having, what felt to me, as much fun as she was. My hair was straight, it hung in my face and I loved it. Then it had to be washed.  I had recently moved out of my parents’ house, a place where I had never learnt to straighten my hair, because my sister would do it for me. So, back to curly I went.  Unlike before, my hair that I was just barely able to tie up when straight was impossible to pull back into a ponytail when it was curly. This was new and frightening territory for me. In the past and as I often do now I just tie it up, but back then I had no choice; it would be loose. Then something surprising happened, something very similar to what had happened to me in high school. The girl who had been admonished for her curly hair was receiving compliments. What?! People liked it? Really? This was all too confusing for me, because it didn’t compute with the image I had of myself and how I valued my own hair. After the shock came the high of being considered attractive for once. My lack of self esteem enjoyed the feeling of being praised for something that I had no control over.  Even so having to wear my hair loose forced me to work with what I had and to ultimately enjoy it. I was still baffled that one of the things that made me feel so ashamed of myself was something that others liked.  

It also brought me to another interesting discovery that I will try to illustrate by relating a short story I had to read for my Afrikaans class in high school. The name of this story is Mejevrou Mattrasskop* which translated into English means Miss Mattress Head. The name denotes the nature of the main character's unruly hair which children in her class think looks like an explosion at a mattress factory.  Oh, sweet dear children with their ability to make both ridiculous and hurtful comparisons.  However, at the end of the story this girl starts to value and recognise the beauty of her hair because Miss South Africa at the time is a coloured woman with curly hair. Now I have to be honest and admit that I haven’t read this story since high school and was unable to find it on the internet to reread it, so this is all from memory. But I have never forgotten it and I think writing this has revealed why to me. Let me start by saying I fucking hate that story. Not only is the title the most thinly veiled insult ever! I can’t imagine the working title for Goldilocks being The Girl with the Pee Coloured hair. Don’t forget Goldilocks violated the home of the bears but she still got a lovely nickname. What upsets me is that this girl only considers her natural beauty as beautiful when an outside source has sanctioned that beauty. This is similar to what happened to me in university and it’s really just superficial nonsense. Now I do believe that the people who complimented me were just being nice, so it’s really about how I was affected by that kind of attention and the questions it brought up for me. Like, “Is my hair great because I think so or because other people do?”

Earlier this week I read this great Chris Rock interview. Not only did I forget how much I enjoy him and his humour it also helped me to arrive at a certain conclusion. That just because something, in this instance curly hair, is accepted and considered beautiful now, doesn’t mean that it wasn’t that way before perceptions about it changed.  Anyone should be able to like or dislike something about themselves based on their own preferences and values.  From my own experience I know this isn’t always the case.  It is tempting to derive worth even from untrustworthy sources who I know don’t have my best interests at heart. In this particularly instance I immediately think of the media and whoever it is that decides what’s attractive. I think it appeals to that desire  to be accepted. At least this was the case when I was a teenager when blue eyes and straight hair seemed to be the answer to all my problems. I don’t always love my curly hair and sometimes I imagine having straight hair would simply be more convenient. But since when is being human convenient and why should it be? When I look in the mirror now after having my hair straightened it feels strange, because I look different and I’m not going to lie part of me still likes that because maybe I can finally become part of that club I’ve wanted to be in all my life. Another part thinks it doesn’t suit me the way I feel my curly hair does.  It just looks and feels, well, boring and uninteresting!

*When I was writing this I was pretty certain this story existed, but my friends who went to high school around the same time as me, albeit different schools, don't seem to remember it. I don't imagine that I've made this whole story up in my head. But I just can't seem to find any other proof that it exists, other than me saying  it does. If this is case I am kind of impressed at that title! Even though it is mean. But I'm also sure it is real though.

Things That Made My Week

Tony Blair

This is what happens to former Prime Ministers. Cherie can smile because she's never been one. So the lesson is never become Prime Minister or the equivalent thereof in your country. You'll carry the weight of that which you could not do with you forever. Oh, and don't be tempted even when they offer you lots of chocolate.

Harper Lee

At the moment I am reading To Kill a Mockingbird. Here's the forward that Harper Lee wrote:

" Please spare Mockingbird an Introduction. As a reader I loathe Introductions. To novels, I associate Introductions with long-gone authors and works that are being brought back into print after decades of interment. Although Mockingbird will be 33 this year, it has never been out of print and I am still alive, although very quiet. Introductions inhibit pleasure, they kill the joy of anticipation, they frustrate curiosity. The only good thing about Introductions is that  in some cases they delay the dose to come. Mockingbird still says what it has to say; it has managed to survive the years without preamble.

Harper Lee

12 February 1993"

I had developed a soft spot for her earlier this year when I discovered she fed birds out of a cool whip container. What brought me even greater joy was the seeming disillusionment of a  certain writer, upon this discovery. Along with Lee’s approval of the whip I also agree with what she says about introductions. I’ve always hated them. They are often long. I find many unintelligible. Worst of all they spoil the plot and ending. So many good books were ruined for me because of introductions. I've been disregarding them for years!

Longwood Gardens' Toilets

Yesterday I visited the spectacular Longwood Gardens and had the pleasure of using their award winning toilets. Have you ever used an award winning toilet? 

The person in this picture just did. Just look at that expression of disbelief and utter joy!

The guy who yelled at me

Usually it's not cool for guys to yell at women. EXCEPT when I'm wearing my Phillies beanie and they shout, "Go, Phillies!" He called after me when I had already walked passed him. I just turned around nodded and smiled. It was a very Seinfeld black & white cookie moment.

Review: Tess of The D'Ubervilles

A pure woman faithfully presented                                                                                                                           Nicole Esbach

Tess of the d’Urbervilles is the kind of novel that you toss aside in frustration, only to resume angry-reading it until the very last page.The 19^th century, Victorian novel by Thomas Hardy, is the literary equivalent of Precious followed by an entire season of Law and Order.The female protagonist, Tess, is positioned as a mere puppet of the gods –to be jostled by whims, patriarchal prejudices and then sacrificed or to be more precise, executed. Her journey through life begins with her hymen, and thus archaically viewed with her virtue still intact. Once severed outside of the social requirement of marriage (with or without her consent), she is considered reduced in moral value and consequently a point of ridicule. For in her world, if you are not Madonna (not to be confused with the sexual provocative, music icon of the same name) then you are a whore.

The story begins in a rural village where John Durbeyfield,a drunk and candidate for Worst Father of the Year learns of his noble heritage. The working class Durbeyfield soon feels elevated by his connection to the old, monied d’Ubervilles and goes off to celebrate this prestigious news in his preferred fashion. What follows is a succession of tragic events, resulting in the Durbeyfields requiring financial support. Evidently believing in presentation, they send their attractive, eldest daughter; who also happens to be the only one with a basic education to secure them the object of their desire from a family whom they mistakenly believe to be their next of kin. These d’Urbervilles, residents of the portentously named, The Slope, had in fact had their current illustrious named purchased by their father, Sam Stokes. At The Slopes, Tess becomes the object of desire of the entitled and smooth-talking Alec d’Urberville.  Whom she believes is a distant cousin of hers due to his constant referral of her as being such. He relentlessly pursues her and she answers each advance with rejection. Not dismayed, the predatory Alec eventually rapes her. Tess pregnant with the child of her rapist, is viewed as having brought shame on her family. She is left to baptise and bury her infant son, named Sorrow alone when he dies. Two years later, she employed as a milkmaid at a dairy farm, Talbothays, she meets Angel Clare. She falls in love with the academic turned apprentice farmer, and typically views him as being her social and moral superior. Angel Clare, for his part falls in love with her or more truthfully falls in love with his image of her – that of an untouched earth goddess. The two marry, only to have said marriage severed after Tess follows Angel’s confession of his past sexual relations with her own. The earth goddess image ruined, Angel flees to Brazil leaving his new bride to fend for herself. Though not before soliciting one of her friends to accompany him in the capacity of mistress to Brazil. Earning him a leading spot in The Douche-Bag Hall of Fame.Tess, in an added cruel twist of fate, ends up working at the farm of the man who had painfully mocked her for her past tragedies. This is then soon followed by the meeting of the seemingly reformed Alec. Alec, the wandering Methodist preacher quickly abandons his proverbial Bible once he sees Tess, and resumes his base pursuit of her. In the end his persistence pays off when Tess’s mother and sister are left destitute by her father’s death and their lack of money. Angel Clare, the marital defector returns to England, remorseful, and attempts to find Tess. He finds her living as an upper class lady with her rapist. Upon seeing Angel, Tess blames Alec for their separation. Which she expresses by fatally stabbing him. She then runs off with Angel Clare to have what is essentially the Bonny and Clyde honeymoon package. On their final day, the police find her asleep at Stonehenge on a sacrificial altar, apparently inspired by symbolism they cart her off to be executed. While the recently blessed couple, Angel Clare and the dubiously named Liza Lu, sister of Tess looks on.

To sum up, Tess of the d’Urbervilles is a critique of Victorian society and its host of judgments as well as its narrow necessaries to be considered a somebody. Women are situated either as man-focused or the object of man’s focus; mere sexual adjuncts in a patriarchal world. Almost anything can be bought: a prestigious family name to gain entry into a higher social order. Indicative of the shift towards the new middle class. And lastly woman and her physical attributes, to be used as and when wanted as a whim or for the price of her family’s financial security. Tess had the unfortunate genetic curse of being born not only as a girl, but as a pretty girl in an environment that bred horrors that was consumed as acceptable daily occurrences. No wonder her only respite was death.

About Nicole:

Apparently nobody is perfect, yet here I am….living proof that that sentiment holds true. Champion of all things grey, voracious eater of the humble peanut (well pulverised into a delectable paste that is) and one existential crisis away from never speaking without using air quotes. Pet peeve: people who send me photographs of food. Instead of actual food. They should be phased out.

Check out her blog GrrrlGazette! It's funny!