The Hair Grows Fonder

fourth year carlie gambino

My mom’s hair has progressed over the years from one large and fluffy style to the next. A curly lioness-mane of a perm in the 80’s, a long spikey pixie-cut in the 90’s, and now a chest-length wolf-cut. I always thought of her hair as straight and spikey— she really had to put in work with the hairspray and comb for her hair to ever so delicately float around her face, accenting her high cheekbones. For all of my childhood she had the longer pixie-cut I now fondly call the artsy Karen cut.

I’d watch her do her hair for hours (we were never an on-time family). She’d re-wet a piece, comb it back, to the side, hold it up in the air while blasting hot air on it, only to release after copious amounts of hairspray suspending it in place. I’d never understood how her fingers wouldn’t burn from the hot air, how she didn’t choke on the hairspray, or how she knew exactly what to do to make her hair compliment her so well.

She would do her hair every time we went out to do something. Regardless of makeup or outfit,she would have her hair done. Sweatpants to run errands? Hair was still done up. All of our friends and family could spot Carrie Gambino in a crowd– she was the only one with a perfectly stormy crown of blonde. People would compliment her frequently and ask if she was a hairdresser or artist (ironically, my creative side is from my father). Her hair gave her height. It gave her edge. It gave her confidence. It was her iconic look.

Meanwhile, my deep brown curly tresses strangled me for most of my childhood. I was drowning in my waist length hair. My dense curls came from my father’s side of the family. I could not have been more opposite from my mother’s hairstyle, so the solution for me was easy: constant ponytail.

She would dote over me and tell me how beautiful it was, but she could never tame it. Like every curly-girl's nightmare, she’d brush right through it resulting in a sort of Hagrid-Hermione fluffy hair combo. At the advice of her hairdresser, she’d blast my hair with the blow dryer with my head flipped upside down for “volume” (there was no curl definition, the only adjective to use for it is big). She’d then smile and say, “You look like Cousin It!” If you’re not familiar, Cousin It is a character from Adams Family whose entire body– face included– is covered in long messy hair.

The blow dry session eventually progressed into drying my hair straight and following it up with 415 degrees of direct heat. I wanted my hair pin straight. My mom would flip the ends and I would crisp them until they laid flat. I wanted the opposite of my mother’s ‘do, but our natural hair was actually what the other most desired.

Fast forward to college, I’m a first-year, riding the high of a fresh confidence boost from making it out of highschool alive. My roommate has the most gorgeous tight curls and she shows me the yellow brick road of hair care. There’s no place like healthy curls. From wavy to curly, I grew out the damage from hating my curls. I learned how to treat them. I started deep conditioning and doing protein treatments. I even shared this with my mother and we’ve found her waves hiding behind damaged bleached ends.

I now spent hours on a wash-day, from the wash to treatments, to the styling. I stand in the mirror re-wetting pieces, applying products, shaping and separating my curls. I burn my fingers with hot air from the diffuser and I secure my curls with gel. I stand in the mirror and understand the hours my mother put into herself. Now my curls are my edge. My height. My confidence and crown. Leggings and a t-shirt but still curls frame my mothers cheekbones that are just starting to show on me.

Together we have healthier hair that can never be voluminous enough. Some parts of becoming your mother aren’t all bad.

The Chapel BellFebruary 28, 2022