Curly Girl

The perfect bowl for 70s kids

My early life was defined by battles with my hair, and like most war zones, it was a lonely place. I'm an army of one, and that won't change much, because my work is dependent upon me, and just me. I am the steam that generates the whole works because I make the stuff. But hair and beauty care is different, because it was long ago co opted by the advertisers in this country who seek to define how we view ourselves so they can sell us shit, and the 70s were no exception to this rule. After America's brief fling in the late 60s with natural hair and an immature concept about freedom that was marked by shows of teenage rebellion, people ran back in droves to the comfort and security of Capitalism, into the waiting arms of "Marketeers".

My hairs' version of a bowl

The barrage started for me at a very early age. I did not look like the ads, shows, magazines or movies would have me look, and those around me readily absorbed these messages, because they didn't like the way I looked either. For as long as I can remember, my hair has been a topic of conversation, something that still baffles me, though I have accepted it as my fate. The bulk of my days consist of work, periods when I become oblivious to how I appear because I am wrestling with far bigger ideas. My first bad brush up with popular culture would be the bowl haircut: a horribly unattractive hairstyle at best, but for most of us, it was a totally unrealistic tearjerker of a hair style.

Dorothy Hamill and the perfect bowl

I have, and will always have, curly hair. In my childhood, it was the bane of my existence because culture made it the center of my world. My hair didn't fit in, and neither did I. Trends were brutally enforced forms of peer pressure that I would struggle with then, and happily ever after. But when you're a kid, you hemmed in by the adults in your world, because they have the resources. My mom is a science major and a feminist, and she also (this is key) has a different type of hair than me. She would jerk a comb through my hair after baths, a routine that became so infamous throughout America that a baby shampoo coined the slogan "No More Tears", and it wasn't solely from soap in the eyes. She bought detangler solution to comb it through my hair post-bath, but the damage had already been done in the cleaning process from the harsh stripping agents of cheap, commercial shampoos that are stronger than most household cleaners. I would learn many years later as an adult that those products are the worst for my hair type.

Another hatchet job of a hair cut

My stressed out mom would throw up her hands in frustration and have my hair cut off every summer. It was very hard on me because I am much more of a "girl" than my mom. I adore long locks, dresses, shoes, experimenting with make up, hair, jewelry, and clothes, things she lacks a feel for. Every summer as a little girl, I would over hear questions about whether I was a boy or a girl. Believe me, I have nothing against gender neutrality, but I was (and am) who I was, and I did not like hearing those comments at all. I will never forget one Boy Scout event that I attended as a young girl. I was waiting in line (by myself) to look at something, in front of a rambunctious little boy and his dad. He must have become antsy and bumped into me accidentally, because the dad said to him "Just wait until the little boy in front of you is done." It rocked me to the core. As I left to find family and leave the place, I remember that the bright, sunny summer day seemed completely at odds with the dark clouds that had rolled in on me. I am not a boy, and that should be as clear to everyone as it was clear to me. I made a promise to myself that when I was older, I would let my femininity be loud and proud and apparent—I wouldn't hide it any longer, and so it is :)

The perfect 70s "wings"

It didn't help that we were surrounded by 70s images of perfection, and those images were mostly defined by white, blond, blue eyed women and girls with long straight hair. The only example around me I had of that was my Barbie doll. I simply didn't know anyone who fit that bill. It wasn't like we didn't try. My hair went through the same excruciating blow dry, setting with hot rollers, and bobby pinning that the rest of the girls in America went through. My hair would start the day looking one way, and by midday, would be a totally different hairstyle. Curly hair doesn't take to "hairdos" like the ones I saw in magazines. I would also learn in high school, when I took over responsibility for my care, that a razor cut is the worst way to cut curls.

My version of "wings"

But it was everywhere that I looked. We live in different times, so it's kind of hard to explain how conformist society was, but any (any) deviation from the norm was suspect. Children have it rough enough growing up, but when it's done under watchful, judgmental eyes, the angst factor raises exponentially. Our parents were very young by comparison to today's standards, thanks to better healthcare and enlightened attitudes. My mom had one guidebook and that was by a man named "Dr. Spock", which had advice from everything to behavior and socialization. I'm gonna let that sink in for a bit. One book. My mom had 3 toddlers under the age of 4 by the age of 27, and the burden of that showed. She stayed at home while my dad got dressed up "Mad Man" style to go to some big, important job in the city where he spent most of his time. We were left with t.v. shows, magazines, and the advice of aunts, or Ann Landers' column in the paper. There was no one to ask about all the day to day issues that come up in a young, busy household except the family doctor or a priest, if the people around you lacked the prowess to navigate life well.

The ubiquitous ideal

It wasn't like we didn't have a million other things to think about and go through anyway, so my styling and wardrobe was a pretty low item on the to-do list, though I was always neat and clean and dressed and fed, which was more than some kids at school got. There was simply too much going on for me to be fussed over, and education was my parents top priority, then as now. Plus, we were raised in a faithful household that taught about matters much more weighty than someones' appearance. It wasn't until I went to school and got made fun of, that I was even made aware of how I looked, because then (as now) I really didn't care that much until someone let me know I should care, and like, A LOT. Like, duh, Marie. I was bookish from a very early age, so I didn't actually think like my schoolmates, and my lack of self-consciousness about trends didn't help me to blend in and get by anonymously. For that class pic of me in a striped shirt, I tightly bobby pinned the wings to my head with about 20 pins, sprayed it down, put on a white painters cap, and slept with the works on overnight, and that was what I got for all my effort.

Same thing here

Oppression is a hard thing to describe because it functions so covertly and subtly. Back then, there was one ideal and one only, and the masses followed. In the 70s, it was this: blonde hair, blue eyed, a white girl who tanned and had big teeth, appeared rich, very thin, and tall, and I was none of things. When I say it was everywhere, I mean it. Those images were on billboards, commercials, magazine ads, cereal boxes, movie heroines...it was invasive and unrelenting. None of my family looked like this media assault, and neither did my friends. I guess it was supposed to represent some California Girl ideal, but I had no idea what that was. I'm a New Yorker. Why would I care what other people did? But every day and in every way, these signals were telegraphed that I should. I am not a follower, so I guess I shrugged it off at an early age. Those images were just fake fantasies to me, not half as interesting as a Grimm fairy tale, dark and mysterious and fascinating. Who cares?

Again...the same look

But the people around me did seem to care to some degree, and much more than me. I figured out pretty quickly, since I was on my own with beauty, that with items bought in a drug store, you could transform yourself. So, if anyone can do it, why is it special? Well, it wasn't, and that was the whole point. Just fit in, for God's sake, fit in! Safety in numbers, and kids learn about panicky mob mentality very early. Men like blondes, and that was that. I never felt pretty or special as a girl. I felt awkward and weird and the bullies let me know that they felt that way about me, too, almost every day. The earliest boy crushes in school were on the same blondes that the men at home liked. Deviation came to my doorstep, so I just let it in. Fuck it, I'm already a freak, why blend in? I never had a choice, and to this day, I still have a wondrous envy for people who do. It must be a solid comfort, like having the same sandwich to eat for lunch every day; the steady lull of routine.

More of the same

Even though it was a dull ache of sameness, times do change (oh, thank GOD), and so did I. The 70s fazed out to be the 80s and pop culture moved on. The masses finally got bored with sameness, slowly and surely, light years behind me, same as now. Hair got livelier and so did the music. I started seeing some bounce in the magazines, stirrings of life after the flat-lining of a culture gone dead. I read Orwells' 1984 in junior high school, and it changed me forever. It was the right book at the right time, and it confirmed every notion that I was starting to form as a young intellectual: conformity is killer. People who must follow the "rules" (and who makes those?) do so out of fear, not by choice or out of careful consideration. OK, so I didn't look like the magazines. Fuck it! I was surrounded by Asian, black, Jewish, Hispanic, and ethnic city kids anyway, so this shit must be for the rest of the country and not us. Fine, they can have it.

Another failed attempt at "wings"

It was around this time that I started flexing the muscles of my real identity. I had been a dancer for most of my life: tap at age 3, ballet by 4, gymnastics by 5 or 6, all through grammar school to junior high. I wasn't fitting in there, either. My ballet teacher told me I had too round a booty for ballet and I should stick to gymnastics. She said I was "too sexy" for ballet, and for an adult who was depending on my parents cash to run her school, she must have meant it. By that time, we started to go "on pointe" and that is a big decision. Pointe required much more of a commitment. In addition to my classes, I would have to stay another hour or more. The ballet shoes back then had pieces of wood in the toes that was wrapped in wool, more wool was placed on top, and stood on: it could permanently damage young, growing feet, so it was a big deal. At that point, girls were sending out feelers to the city about companies and other programs, and my parents were no different. 

My version of "ballet" hair

Ballet becomes your life when you're in it. I began thinking about Julliard High School and their audition process. And then I had a conversation with my teacher one afternoon about my progress. I asked her about going further. She asked me in turn, "But, do you really have a passion for it, Marie? I mean, I see you in class. You're not really there. Do you enjoy it? Do you want to be a dancer? Because it's something you have to want more than anything else in the world." I took a look around at the girls in the advanced class, putting on their toe shoes. They fucking hated me. I was much prettier than them (though I didn't really think about it), and I didn't spread bitchy gossip like they did. Needless, my hair didn't cooperate to conform to the look, just like my body supposedly didn't. I spent about 30 seconds thinking about the answer to my teachers questions. You mean, do I want to spend the next 20 years of my life competing with a bunch of skinny, bitchy, boring girls? The answer is...hell, no. I realized that I simply didn't fucking belong there; it was not my world. I quit, gladly hung up my shoes, and never looked back or regretted it since then, and readers, I mean not once. My parents still bemoan my decision today (Which I find cute. They are such fans.), but I had an artistic vocation already.

et vous?

I didn't look, act, or think like a ballerina and I knew it. I was reading as much as I could possibly inhale, and I was writing and drawing like a girl on fire. I knew what real artistic passion was from time spent on my private island of one. Those things came to me as naturally as breathing. I lost myself in my activities for hours on end. No one coached me, instructed me, or had to tell me what to do. Besides, boys were getting interesting, I mean school, SCHOOL was getting interesting. We started learning the real meat of stuff and I loved it. Adults were telling us about actual historical events. As they trusted us with this material, I leaped past them and started voraciously exploring information on my own. I always read far ahead of my level (I'm a year or two younger than my former classmates), so school became a counterpoint to my education during high school. The students became a lot cooler, too. I had a friend from England living with a family as part of an exchange program. We immediately clicked.

moi?

I was learning French (avec plaisir!) at the same time I befriended another girl from overseas. Caroline was living with her grandparents after a brief and intense affaire with an Arab boy, which was taboo in racist 80s France. He was part of a gang that rode around on mopeds, slashing rivals faces with razor blades they held between their fingers as they zipped passed each other. She showed me how they cut each other in the face with their blades "like theese, phht, phtt" and how they held them, because she rode on the back of his bike. Once they progressed to sex and birth control pills, her parents shipped her out. To New York and city kids. Smart move! She brought with her an international, European look, and tons of cool French magazines. It was a revelation to me. I had never never seen a brown-eyed brunette model on the cover of a magazine before, and it meant so much to me. That seems really odd now, but like I said, it was a rigid society. Our ethnic parents wanted badly to blend in, so they could make money and have the mythic "American Dream", which is a marketing mirage that doesn't exist anyway. It was Cindy Crawford, and Cindy, thank you. She looked like us; she had different hair, wore mad stylish clothes, très moderne et très chic. Bon! I started in earnest to find and define my personal style.

at the beach

Times for my hair improved dramatically, too. It was like my childhood in reverse. As the other girls struggled to keep up with perms and curling irons, I could finally let my hair do its thing. Instead of setting my alarm for 5:00 am so I could fight with my hair AND make the 7:15 bus, I rocked bedhead like I was born with it, which I was. I spend most summers at the beach, where all your efforts at a sleek, straight-haired look are fucking pathetic attempts at control anyway. I couldn't hide my hair at the beach, and now that the times had changed, I didn't have to. The 80s were my teenage years and like any other adolescent, they became my road to freedom. 

relaxed, like my hair

I woke up, took a shower, turned some heat on my bangs and voila! La mode. This was my time, finally. I started coming out of my shell and wearing better clothes. I had a job at 15, and after that, a series of shop girl jobs at clothing stores. I devoured fashion mags for the hair and make up tips, swimming in style. I ditched my moms' Argentinian hairdresser at the mall, with the fake blonde dye job and 70s wings, who hated me anyway, for a young, hip Italian-American girl at the hottest salon, in the closest town to my house. They blasted new wave music, and everyone who worked there wore lots of black, lots of big silver jewelery, lots of dark make up, and they partied in the city all the time.

letting my hair down

My amie Française and I hit the stores hard. I soaked in her nonchalance and natural manner, the joie de vive she had about herself and her look. She custom styled her earrings and cut her t-shirts whenever she wanted to. We made clothes suit our tastes and not the other way around. Times became arty, and standing out instead of blending in became de rigeur. Our music reflected this new attitude about how we presented ourselves to the world. Instead of getting flack for being ahead of the pack, my peers suddenly wanted it. At the same time I hit my style stride, me and my friends widened our circle geographically, too. We started taking bus rides into the city. At first it was just to look around and walk, but then we became more targeted and focused.

mags, lifeline to the world

We found music stores and art galleries that had the kinds of stuff we were into, the bands and outfits that we saw in the funky magazines we were eating up at a fast pace. We had to. Our parents marriages had fell apart, kids were dissolving into madness, drugs, or alcohol addiction, and people were already dying. If we had a shot at defining a real future for ourselves, we had to go out there and get it, because our parents had no idea what was going on with themselves, let alone the big world outside their doors. We were a generation who thrived on mixing tapes and passing them around, because mainstream culture had given us the middle finger a long time ago anyway, when the Boomers realized we didn't buy into their shit.

ankle boots and my real hair

It wasn't rebellion so much as survival and a voice which, due to the relatively small population base that is GenX, we were denied. After all, if you aren't the things you buy, who are you? Our world was busy turning dysfunction into new syndromes like hoarding compulsions and OCD, as vulnerable people spun out of control and clutched desperately at the objects advertised to improve their lives. When that didn't work (because a fucking couch or bracelet can't love you back) they turned on us. We got the message loud and clear—you better be more substantial than some shallow marketing message or you became a casualty of life. Those magazines didn't reflect us truly, because that shit could turn on us any minute, too. Society and the rest of the hoard were as fickle as a two year old. Best to get your head down right with your own vision.

punk is in

I coasted through senior year, which I didn't need for the grades or credits because I got all I needed to enter college by my junior year of high school. My parents had put me back for my older brother because it would embarrassing for him to have his sister in classes with him. It was mostly fine with me because like I wrote, I was younger than the other kids by a lot and it showed in my very youthful looks. So, I survived by collecting imported vinyl by new acts like U2, sleeved in their original Irish album covers and sold in record stores in the city, singing about class warfare, right wing privilege, and religious bias. It was the perfect energy for me. I wanted change, too.

High school graduation, and I was already gone

As I sit here writing this, I still can't believe I'm alive. Man, I am happy to be here!  Violence exploded in the late 80s and 90s with race riots, AIDS flared up like the plague and decimated entire populations, as crack addiction swallowed up the projects and ate them whole. Car jacking and random crime, over shit like new sneakers or gold jewelry, overtook those who were too impoverished and beat down to do anything but hurt themselves and others. I started getting a rhythm again for the city and my roots, riding the trains with the beat box boys, the skaters, and the graffiti guys. They spoke my language, and as artists, we could give voice to what was really going on. I started breathing in reality in huge lungfuls as I unplugged from a false, corrupt, and fat suburbia that crippled me and my friends families, and I wanted more. Our fathers had left town and were gone, taking their issues and broken dreams, leaving us free to explore our environments as best we could, while our mothers worked jobs for the first time in years, no longer housewives. We were freed.

 

I left for college, and as I've written before, my life improved overnight. There have been times when trends have turned the masses against me again in tidal waves, but I don't give a flying fuck. The 90s brought a return to straightened, boring "white girl" hair, with baggy beige clothes and blue denim shirts from The Gap, fueled and funded by the Friends sitcom frenzy that packaged conventionality once again for frightened people, but by that time I was far ahead of the loop. I found a type of hair dryer with a brush attachment, so I can dry my hair before leaving the door on cold winter days. It takes some of the curl out, but never all of it, and that's my flavor, that's me. Years later I would work for a small publishing company that employed a dissatisfied young woman who bounced angrily from job to job within our tiny company, and lo and behold, she took it out on her Spanish/Irish hair with a Japanese chemical straightening process so damaging that it left two dead pieces flopping limply on her forehead for years. When I listened to her average (by now) tale of woe, I didn't get ruffled one bit. I smiled, and handed her my copy of the book Curly Girl. This Christmas I gave an updated edition with a how-to CD to my very curly niece, so that she, and the next generation, doesn't have to do it all on their own. Now she knows she's not alone. http://www.amazon.com/Curly-Girl-Handbook-Lorraine-Massey/dp/076115678X/ref=dp_ob_title_bk

Much love to you.