Читать книгу Fat, Pretty, and Soon to be Old - Kimberly Dark - Страница 10

When I was six years old, my mother had my hair cut in a style she called a “pageboy.” I didn’t know what that meant, but it had the word “boy” in it and that’s exactly what strangers started calling me. I was big for my age and chubby, and my facial features were bold, as they are now. Not masculine, but bold and expressive. Long hair adds gender clarity. It can soften or reveal a face that shows emotions readily. I rejected cleverly named haircuts afterward when my mother suggested them, and my hair became a long ponytail once more.

Through my whole life, my mother’s hair was short—always fashionable, but short. She wore it dark when I was a child, and the sides came into cute little curls pointing toward her dimples, not as short as a pixie cut but the same shape. It lightened as she aged and morphed along with fashion. The length of my hair was always a point of contention between us after I became old enough to refuse the haircuts she wanted. I know she influenced the stylist because it always ended up shorter than I wanted. “Shoulder-length is still long,” she’d chirp. “But it looks so much better shorter! I don’t understand why you don’t believe me!”

In this case, she was offering advice counter to popular fashion opinion. And she definitely understood popular fashion. This was so confusing, and I thought she’d have been as ashamed as I was of the gender confusion my shorter hair caused. But perhaps she didn’t hear it as much as I did, from people like bus drivers, kids at school, and shopkeepers. None of her friends would have called me a boy. Is it possible that she didn’t want me to look feminine, cute, and fashionable? I couldn’t imagine that. It always seemed so important to her that I lose weight so that I could be exactly those things.

If it was going to be long, she wanted my hair pulled back in clips or a bun. The bun is how she styled it when I was a small child, before the pageboy. I rode the bus home from school, and the assigned seating placed me in front of two older boys who pulled out my hair pins one by one on the way home so that I always arrived in a tangle thanks to the breeze through the window. I told her it wasn’t my fault, but there I sat, as soon as I got home, being pulled by the brush, like punishment.

By the time I was eight, if I wore my hair down, she’d look at me and say, “Ew, why do you want all of that stringy hair hanging all around you. It looks like witchy-poo.” Sometimes she’d try to enlist others to reinforce her disdain of my long hair. Often they’d diplomatically mention their fondness for fashionable short cuts. Sometimes, they’d actually say, “Oh, I don’t know. She has beautiful hair.”

I had beautiful hair, soft and shiny, and its chestnut color in my early childhood darkened to sable in elementary school. Perhaps she didn’t like that I had darker hair and complexion than she did, more like my father, who was of dubious ethnic and racial origins. Whiteness was important; my father performed it well, and it’s what I learned too.

I thought I had beautiful hair. I wasn’t sure, because I valued her opinion on appearance. Modeling and fashion were her business, after all, and I knew she was skilled from the way others were always impressed with her looks. But regarding my hair, she seemed to be lying to me somehow.

One time, instead of the witchy-poo comment, she said something I didn’t understand at all and needed to ask about. I had styled my hair, which I didn’t usually do, used the curling iron and tried to fluff it a bit, though it was naturally very straight. She saw it and said, “My god, you look like a teenage thyroid case!” I was probably nine, not a teenager, and what did that thyroid comment mean? It was embarrassing to ask that an insult be explained, but I couldn’t bear not to know what she was saying about me. “It just makes your face look full,” she explained with pity in her voice. “It makes you look fatter than you are, and remember: everything you wear should give a slimming appearance.” This was just something that had to be done. If there was a figure flaw, it should be corrected through clothing. Only use hairstyles to enhance the shape of the face; only choose colors that flatter. Learning the rules of fashion was very important in my upbringing.

That “teenage thyroid case” comment stayed with me. It seemed such an elaborate thing to say to make a simple point. She always said she was just being helpful, and I believed her. I continued to believe her against all reason. Was she trying to save me from ridicule? Did she not want me to look pretty? What on earth did she have against my hair?

Just after my very first haircut, when I was three, my mother gathered up the little wisps—they were about five inches long—fine baby hair that had actually spent time in her womb. She tied each small bundle in a red ribbon and sent one each to my grandparents as a memento of my youth. My father still had one, in his dark wooden box of special things, when he died. It rested among the cufflinks. As a child, I found this particular wisp in its red ribbon. Even then, I recognized the tiny package as a souvenir of my innocence. She didn’t always hate my hair.