How early in
life do we start comparing ourselves to others? Stacy Eichman had naturally
curly hair. Mine was fine and straighter than any stick my mother compared it
to. Every Saturday night I sat before my mom on the floor while she dipped a
comb in a glass of water and ran it through my hair, the cold drips on my neck
the price of beauty, just as the stench of a Toni home permanent was. Each night before church my hair was wrapped
around the pink foam of a dozen sponge curlers so that I slept in a ring of
Styrofoam, my own crown of thorns.
I remember
one night I sat up and in a fit of discomfort pulled all the curlers out and
hurled them across my bedroom. Almost
immediately I was filled with terror for this act of self-will. My mother would be furious. I moved quickly
to gather them all and then in the dark attempted to re-set my hair, without a
comb or mirror, my six year old fingers clumsily rectifying my betrayal.
I sang in
the church’s children’s choir and one Sunday we performed, arranged on the altar
steps by height, so I was in the front row.
Not long into the song, a boy two rows up got sick and projectile
vomited all over us. I recoiled,
probably gagged, and looked to see who had done it. The choir director
continued, and at the end of the song we were ushered to the basement kitchen,
where parents had rushed to help us. My
dad was there along with lots of mothers tending to their splattered
children. I remember a bubble of conversation
and then curly-haired Stacy was praised for appearing unfazed and continuing
to sing “like a little trooper.”
I felt indicted by comparison.
I’m not sure
what lessons I took from this event that remains vivid 50 years later. Was this
the beginning of self-seeking—looking to appear poised and polished regardless
of what’s going on inside? Does only perfection merit praise? And where today am I
curling my perfectly straight hair to meet someone’s ideal--literally and metaphorically? Is it ok to publish
something without a nifty ending or profound conclusion?
