Everyday Was A Bad Hair Day

Jew-Fro, Zzirf, and Draino

Helical, Tendrillar, Scrolled… those are all lovely names for curls. (Yes, the thesaurus is every writer’s buddy.)

If my hair had a name when I was 12 it would have been Zzirf; frizz spelled backward. (The second z is silent.) Zzirf didn’t believe in gravity. She didn’t know which way was down. Zzirf wasn’t a flat earther but was convinced the world was shaped like a spiral and reflected this credence in her physical form. After a shower Zzirf dried within minutes. Plus, it was Encino where a typical day in February 1975 was eighty-one degrees Fahrenheit. One step outside and Bam-- Zzirf dried out like mucus after a dose of Nyquil. Her volume increased tenfold. Bakers should have tested my hair for a biological form of yeast. When I stretched out a corkscrew shaft of Zzirf between my thumb and index, she grew 4 inches. When I released, she bounced back into her coil like a sleeping snake. The persistent halo of frizz encompassing my head was not angelic.

My bad hair day was every day.

I had an odd relationship with my hair. We had many arguments. “Why can’t you just be straight with me?” I’d say. I meant it— literally. Even though the Jew-fro was snipped close to my head people knew which side I slept on. The curls and frizz, mostly frizz, were a tight weave of random chaos. Other kids would ask if they could touch my hair. I appreciated them since they asked. Others would just sneak a feel. Sweaty kid # 4, Zachary, put his gum wrapper on my head. I didn’t know. He sat behind me in English class. During Mrs. Simon’s lecture about gerunds, she suddenly approached me and flicked the wrapper off my head. The kids laughed. I with them but inside cringing and wondering why G-d gave me these unnatural natural curls. And a back brace for scoliosis. If it wasn’t my dysfunctional hair the question was, “What’s that thing around your neck?” (The Milwaukee brace included a metal bar around my neck.) Or, yet-another-boy-shorter-than-me #8 would call me “Ram rod” and would laugh as though that was the wittiest jab in the bully universe. My inner humorist knew that joke would bomb at The Comedy Store. The brace was temporary, so the names and stares didn’t bother me as much as my hair. 

That would be forever. I was stuck with it. I dreamed of manes and wigs. I wanted spaghetti hair like the lyric in the song from that musical. (RIP Treat Williams who starred in the original movie.)

Or the silky, slinky strands that Cher liked to flip. My hair affected my thoughts. I’d spiral out of control and conclude; I should have been born Japanese. When G-d said, let there be the most gorgeous hair on the planet He created Asians. And Kim Kardashian.

My mom tried to intervene. She took me to a hair salon in Beverly Hills. The owner and name sake of said salon, Larry Bowser, was known in the POC community. There was moi, Jew-fro, pre-menses, preteen, pre-everything, and sitting confidently in the other swivel chairs were lovely black women getting their tresses straightened too. Mr. Bowser used a product called Kicks Kink and it worked. How, you might ask? A main ingredient was lye. Yes, the same chemical used in Draino. If the goop touched my skin, Mr. Bowser would smear a fingernail full of Vaseline on the area. By the end of the appointment, I had beautiful straight hair and scabs all over my scalp. Four months later I’d have two inches of curly, kinky roots loitering above tidied hair. More arguments with my tangles ensued. “Please, Zzirf-- Just loosen up.”

It wasn’t until college when I grew into my smile and figure, my back brace probably living in a landfill in Fresno, that I decided to make my hair work for me. I was an actor and the photographer who took my headshots also styled my hair and applied make-up. I was enthralled as he sprayed this whipped cream texture onto his hand and scrunched it into my wild forest. The frizz disappeared like magic.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Mousse, darling.”

What’s this mousse and why wasn’t I informed? It seemed to me this was the best invention since lye.

(I still remember the photographer, Marc Raboy. He was THE guy for actor’s headshots. Sadly, he died of AIDS like so many young talented men in those days.)

Mousse— I got the memo.

After my head shot session, I immediately went to Dwane Reade and bought their largest size container of mousse. For the next several years, I’d spray it in my palm and the white substance would grow like a wet tampon. Several handfuls would float on my head until the scrunching action magically sucked out the frizz and the curls lengthened by an eighth of an inch. My hair was visibly longer. Watch out Cher.

I was thrilled with my new mane. It made me unique. It was also in style. 1987 was the height of crimpy, coiled, crinkling hair. Remember the TV show, Felicity? Keri Russel had beautiful locks so did Nicole Kidman in Days of Thunder. They were my follicle idols. People would ask me if I had a perm. I’d proudly reply, “No it’s natural.” Obnoxious woman #2 didn’t believe me but I told her, “This hair was hard won. Not to quote a Virginia Slims cigarette campaign, but I came a long way, baby.”

First of two times guest starring on Seinfeld. The mousse started to fail. Kramer and I could have been sibs.

When curls/perms went out of style, I refused to capitulate to the latest hair softener. Kidman and Russel had already sold out, gone the way of the iron. I was disappointed. They were my mop mentors. I was sure that some slimy Hollywood producer or agent convinced them. It wasn’t until years later when I had the notion that maybe I would have worked more consistently as an actor had I relaxed my curls too. I’ll never know.

I continued to wear my frizzy locks. If I needed a break, I found a great alternative. Hats. And living in NYC provided me with an excuse. Three of the four seasons meant rain, snow, and freezing temperatures. Voila, the hat was protection, a fashion statement. Plus, I looked cute in them. They completed an outfit. Though if I went outside without a hat in August, my hair grew yet another five feet horizontally. The summer hat became an appendage during those humid months. And still, I didn’t give in. It was my birth right.

Then my honey came along. (Honey is now hubby of 31 years.) Jeffrey loved my curly hair. He’d run his fingers thru and his hand would get stuck as though there was a roadblock. Traffic on my scalp. Knotted cars. He didn’t care. He’d pull his hand back lovingly. 

Yes, Jeffrey was in the musical, Hair and played Jesus on Broadway in Godspell.

After a few years, mousse lost its umph. We were raising our kids on the east coast and my hair became a teenage Zzirf and wouldn’t listen to reason. Zzirf was downright defiant. My mom (the one who graciously gave me her hair DNA) told me about Keratin. I wanted to have a functional relationship with Zzirf so I indulged in the keratin protein and haven’t looked back. I was blonde at that time and hubby preferred my follicles in my more natural tone of brunette, so I compromised. I went back to a tawny auburn and finally got my straight hair. And, it was as straight as Cher’s! Double-And, my new roots were behaving. Triple-And, no scabs on my scalp.

Now I consider myself lucky. If I get cranky over straight hair, I can change it. But I’ll always remember my last conversation with Zzirf.

“Listen Zzirf- you’re taking away my dignity I tell ya. You’re all wound up. You’re frayed at the edges. 
She answered, “I got nothin’ to do with this. Blame my conjoined twin, Elcillof. 

1. Editor-Hubby said I could do better with that last joke. Any suggestions?

2. Did you ever take Nyquil for a cold?

3. You having a good hair day?

4. Peace. (I watched the link and got in a 1968 mood.)