I got curly hair. Actually, it’s frizz. It curls at the front but from the ears on back, it’s frizz. Curls have a smoothness to them, it hangs in ringlets, it’s the stuff of fairy tales, romantic heroines have curls that frame the face in swoon-worthy ways and smells of sunshine and a life of untold happiness. 

For the record, this is not me. 

I’ve been wrestling with my bird’s nest for an aeon and I finally have come to a place of acceptance. It’s long enough that I can twist up it into a roll with a few strategically placed hairdresser clips for tidiness or, if I want to scare dogs and small children, I run a bristle brush through it until it stands on end and step out the front door. I don’t need product to give it this look. My hair is so dry that the little oil on the roots is dragged through the hair with the brush, giving my tangle a natural gel of sorts. This is how it defies gravity. I look like Yahoo Serious (remember him?) but that’s the point. If I can’t embrace the hair on my head then frankly, I haven’t been trying hard enough. 

In the iconic movie My Brilliant Career, our woman of the hour—the note perfect, incomparable Judy Davis—has my hair. In one scene she’s watching Sam Neill flirt with a beautiful guest and if nothing else, the visual of the woman’s hair and our Jude’s is telling. The woman’s locks have a sheen that Judy’s can never imitate while Judy’s has the consistency of pubic hair, if I can be blunt. But I love this film because it's not about perfection and Judy's hair is most definitely not for the faint-hearted. 

In my time, I’ve had short back and sides with the curls on top a la Tim Finn (brother of the more famous Neil), I’ve grown it long in the hopes of channelling Andie Macdowell—who the fuck am I kidding—I've worn it like a character out of Puberty Blues, all salt encrusted and thick with the smell of the ocean. Now it rarely sees shampoo and it only gets brushed when it’s wet. This has taken years of trial and frustration. No one will tell you, particularly hairdressers, that a certain flavor of curly hair does NOT require weekly shampooing. The industry is predicated on selling us stuff.   

And don’t think that curly hair, is curly hair, is curly hair. The varieties of frizz are unknowable so when I read the Vogue articles about how to tame your curls (heaven forfend that we let our steel wool rule the world), I read it more in the spirit of being told, yet again, by the beauty industrial complex that my looks are unworthy and I best fix that in the hopes of joining the ranks of the well-groomed. 

Of course I have succumbed to this ridiculous siren song of utter nonsense. I had my hair straightened for the first time in New York, some years ago. I paid a stupid amount of money to have some dude spend over an hour puling, pulling and pulling my hair with a curling brush while he applied a blowdryer to the taut hair. Three hundred bucks later (not including tip), I had a head of hair of such smooth consistency that I kept petting it like a demented heroine out of an Edgar Allen Poe tale. The fact that I looked like Kylie Minogue in drag is neither here nor there. And the other thing to note for those of you who know of what I speak, this look is not to be attempted in certain climates. This glossy sheen lasted for tops an hour in New York’s summer humidity. I should have saved myself the heartache and simply flushed the three hundred dollars down the loo. 

It’s taken some time to get out from underneath this particular shadow but I think I’ve penetrated that darkness. The inner workings of my hair follicles have been released from the lotions and potions and spells and oils and general all-manner of hocus pocus I’ve rubbed into my scalp over the decades and it’s thanking me for it. You’re welcome.

These days, I hang over the bathtub and brush my hair with my head bent and my hair damp from a spray bottle full of water. It’s all about getting a consistent wet look before applying the bristles. I pull the brush firmly through the tangles and then flip my head upright and put a towel over it and pat it dry and then give it another brushing looking into the mirror. And then I’m done. It dries within an hour. Then I’ll either pin it up or keep it out. Depending on my mood. 

The other day, Ma made a moue looking at my frizz and I wanted to shout with relief. This is the woman I knew and loved. She could always be guaranteed to have something to say about its state. It was weird and strangely cheering that even in her addled mind, her reaction to my hair remains the same. Small comfort but I’ll take anything these days.