Please do not ask me if I have a brush. I don’t have a comb, or a straightener, or regular shampoo/conditioner or detangler. And do not tell me when I am complaining about my bad hair day, “just brush it”! When I was a little kid, from the time I was born to 8th grade I was constantly besieged by hairbrushes. I have developed such an immunity to pain in my scalp from the many times that my mother, my grandmother, my sister, my friends and I tried to tame the hair spilling out of my head. I would cry, and cry, and cry because not only did it HURT, but each stroke made my hair grow bigger, and bigger, and bigger until it was wrapped around my ears and neck and only my eyes could be seen behind the fluffy, voracious mane that I had been cursed with. Perhaps that is an exaggeration, but when you mom forgets to tell the hairdresser to give you layers and you go to school with a frizzy triangle hovering around your head, you wouldn’t like brushes either. Thus, the solution to all of my problems seemed very obvious; I wanted straight hair. And as a 4th grade Potterhead, my sole dream in life was to have hair like Ginny Weasley; long, silky, crimson locks. So as Halloween was coming around I convinced my mom to buy red hair dye, spend an hour blow drying and straightening my hair, and then spray it with enormous amounts of hair spray.
But it was not to be. I might add as a side note that my hair really, really, really likes rain. As it began to drizzle my hair underwent an enlargement spell worthy of Ron Weasley, in that it had gone freakishly wrong. Curls upon curls sprang from my scalp, frizz enveloping each one to increase the volume ten-fold. So every house I went to, they opened the door, treats in hand and asked me, “Oh, are you Hermione Granger? Why is your hair red?” So yes, the early frizz years caused me a ridiculous amount of stress, pain, and tears that many times, certainly made me wish for straight hair. But I came to a realization. Whenever I let my hair air dry and put some of my mom’s curly product in, and under no circumstances brushed my hair, there was no frizz. There was no voluminous mane choking me, there were only bouncy curls. The brush which had been my sworn enemy for so long held no power over me, and was forever purged from my bathroom. So no, I don’t have a brush you can borrow.
One thought on “Curly Girl and the Evil Hairbrush by Esti Goldstein”
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