Red the hair grows: how I grew to love my hair

Lucy Dockter ‘23 Editor-in-Chief

When people look at me, I know the first thing they see: my hair. It is bright red and curly-cue curly. The rest of my family has dark, straight, brown hair. They wake up in the morning, brush out the knots and the tangles, smooth it flat against their heads, and are good to go. But when I try the same, my crimson corkscrews grow into a lion’s mane. I’ve learned to leave the house, no matter how my hair looks.

My hair has a mind of her own, never sitting still, twisting off in random directions. Some people will try to push stray curls (the ones that stick straight up or out) back in, but their efforts are in vain. My hair does not want to listen. My hair and I have always been opposites. She attracts attention. She’s big and loud and doesn’t listen. We often don’t get along. She gets me caught up in social interactions I don’t relish, bring ing in swarms of strangers wanting to touch her or talk about proper hair-care techniques. She gets snarled on the small est things: buttons, velcro, rings. When she is loose, she blocks my peripheral view. She doesn’t match any of my colorful t-shirts. She flies wild and free every time I open my mouth.

I, on the other hand, like structure. I like having instructions. But I’ve never been given instructions on my hair. There is no manual. I’ve followed tutorials online for when or how to brush her, but they never work. I’ve ended up brushing her to the point of both of us suffering: hair in the drain and my wrist sprained.

Over the years I’ve learned techniques of tying my hair back, protecting it from getting caught when I drive or wear sequins or play the cello. I’ve learned how to hold her in the shower to be able to brush her (brush in small segments—there’s less pushback).

But even though we battle, my hair is protection. She keeps me warm; I never need a wool hat or scarf in the wintertime. She’s also a comfort in that she’s special. She makes me laugh when I look in the mirror after waking up and strands of hair are flying about my face, and I know there is nothing I can do about it. I know I always have a bit of pizzazz to every outfit. The truth is, she’s grown on me.