CityView Magazine

on second thought T Fifty Shades of Gray: The Story of My Hair BY MARY ZAHRAN is a dominatrix — my hair. Long, short, straight, curly, brown, gray, strawberry blonde, his is the story of a woman and her sig- nificant other, a tale of love, hate, stormy pas- sions, and betrayal. While there are no steamy kisses or eyebrow-raising boudoir antics, there even purple (more about that later), my hair has given me more moments of torment and embarrassment than any human ever has. official Bad Hair Day (I have had so many since then that I have stopped counting). I was about six months old and lying on my stomach on a bed, sporting the first of many awful haircuts. My hair, which was very dark, had been cut by my mother, who, in her attempt to work around my ten thousand cowlicks, had given me a style that managed to combine the appearance of a mad scientist and a patient in an insane asylum. To say that the look was unflattering would be a bit of an I have a black and white photograph that documents my first life choosing between full, dented hair and thin, straight hair, Dorothy Hamill came to the rescue. Hamill, the 1976 Olympic figure skating gold medalist, wore a wedge haircut, and women everywhere rushed to salons to get one. I only had to say the word "Dorothy," and my hairdresser took it from there. Half an hour later, I looked in the mirror and could not be- Just when I thought I would have to spend my entire adult lieve what I saw: my cowlicks were tamed, my brunette locks glistened, and my hair fell right back into place when I shook my head. The low-maintenance wedge saved me from a life- time of looking like a mad scientist and sounding like a gum- ball machine. I had discovered a brave new world of hairstyl- ing, and I was determined to blow-dry my way through it. In my post-wedge years, I literally had many ups and downs understatement, but mercifully I was too busy staring at my fingers to notice. Total obliviousness can be such a blessing at times like these. Fast forward a few years to my favorite event of the year — picture day at school. Inevitably, my mother would decide the night before that it was time for her daughter to get a Toni home perm. (Remember those?) My perm, combined with yet another awful haircut, assured me of photographs that would later provide my children with countless hours of laughter. I oſten wondered why none of my teachers ever reported my mother to Child Protective Services. Eventually, I was old enough to assume the role of sadistic hairdresser, a responsibility that I took very seriously. I think of those days as the Dark Ages of hairstyling, before women had electric rollers or haircuts that could be blown dry. I would roll my hair at night on pink plastic curlers that had a clip-on cover to hold each curler in place. If I shook my head when I finished, the curlers made a clattering sound like gumballs rolling around in a dispenser. These curlers not only kept me from getting any sleep, they with my hair. I wore the oversized styles of the 1980s, when my coiffure was sometimes twice the size of my head. Only my gigantic shoulder pads prevented me from looking like a human lollipop. Occasionally, I would envision myself with a sleek bob, but would run screaming to my hairdresser to "chop it all off" whenever my hair reached the in-between stage that made me look like I was always wearing earmuffs, even in July. Then came heartbreak and betrayal. I leſt my hairdresser of twenty years for someone else. I walked out on the first woman ever to color my graying hair, the one who had always given me honest, friendly advice. I felt like a rat. If I was looking for change, I sure got it. The first time I saw my new hairdresser, I asked her to dye my hair the same color as hers. She obliged, and the results were disastrous. What looked like a rich auburn on her olive complexion looked like purple beet juice on my pale skin. Everyone was very kind to me during this time, and not one single person ever asked me if my hair was bleeding. Eventually, my purple hair returned to its normal mousy brown color. My hair and I have come to an understanding. I no longer also accomplished the seemingly impossible task of making my already unattractive hair look even worse by creating large dents in it wherever they had burrowed into my skull while I attempted to sleep. 16 | September/October • 2012 abuse it with outrageous cuts, colors, or perms, and it doesn't embarrass me with untamed cowlicks or thinning patches. We are finally comfortable with each other, like an old married couple. While the white-knuckle thrills may be gone, so is the torture, and I don't miss either one. CV Mary Zahran and her now-boring hair live in Fayetteville. They can be reached at maryzahran@gmail.com

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