My Hair Has Deceived Me

When I reflect and reminisce on my past hairstyles, though I not often do, a pressing question that seems to flood my mind: will any hairstyle stand the test of time? I’ve watched as my hair changed from a cute curly top to a typical-high-school-girl style, and all the abhorrent styles in between. Each time, I seem to remember thinking my hair actually looked good, though I now see I was fooled by a huge act of deceit.

Stage one, I was Shirley Temple. You may think you know what she looks like, with her springy curls and dancing ringlets, but you’re wrong; I was Shirley Temple, or at least I should have been. For every befuddling, bouncing bit of hair on Shirley Temple’s head, I had twice the befuddling, and twice the bouncy bit right on top of my head.
 

Stage two, I was a poodle. Some might call me curly top, or refer to my hair as “that mop on your head,” but it was all the same to me. I was no longer the image of that dancing singing sensation, I was a composite of frizzy, puffy, and overwhelmed. My own hair was out to get me, and it barely even hung past my chin.

Stage three, I was mistaken to be a boy. When my dad was given the freedom to cut my hair for me-- meaning he took the liberty to do it himself no matter what anyone else said-- he discovered he was not meant to be a barber, at my expense. My hair was short and thin and lacking in so many voluminous ways, because now my beautiful curls were taken from me.

Stage four is what most would call a “half-Shirley”, because although I’d like to pretend my cute stage lasted forever, I know that it actually deteriorated as I got older. Thankfully, I still had a “half-Shirley” left on the first day of Pre-Kindergarten, because I don’t think it was my dashing charm that first wowed my teachers. I thank my hair for my generous treatment that year.

Stage five was the Great Depression. From first grade to seventh grade, my hair fell flat. The curls were feeling too heavy to bounce back up, so instead they hung with droopy arches and burdened excitement. No haircut would ease the turmoil. No braid, pigtail, or headband could put an end to the overwhelming hopelessness. It was hard to tell if we’d ever get out of our slump, my hair and I, but we found a light at the end of the tunnel.

          Stage six, I discovered that short hair isn’t for everyone. Short hair certainly wasn’t for me, despite the thirteen years I spent trying to convince myself that short hair was a good look for me. I often contemplated telling people I was Medusa, just so they wouldn’t look at me. I’ve gained some valuable insight from my middle school hair extravaganza; always tell the barber to cut off less hair than you actually want cut. They struggle with the concept of specific inches.

Stage seven, I figured out the key to my never-ending puzzle of hair. Maybe it was the new-school adrenaline pumping through my veins, or maybe I finally had some sense knocked into me, but I made the important discovery during freshman year. My hair needs to stay long. After fourteen years of uncertainty, good fortune, and shame, I finally just let my hair grow, and in turn, my contentedness too. My hair finally hung with purpose and poise. The frizz and the bouncing manifest itself in tamed curls. It was time for a comeback.

          Stage eight continues to surprise me every day. Each morning is like waking up on Christmas day to see all of the presents under the tree. However, I never know if I’m going to end up opening the big box from my parents, that is exactly the right size to fit the gift I wanted, or the little box from my Great Aunt I’ve never heard of before, who lives on a farm in Nebraska. Sometimes my hair is just how I want it to be, but sometimes I end up with messes and situations I’ve never encountered before. It’s a confusing ride with my hair, but I can’t really get off, unless I decide to go Lindsay Lohan on the whole mess, but even I know that that is a point of no return. No matter what horrendous or despicable stages I encounter, it never seems to last very long, though, so I just hope that in the mean time my hair doesn’t do anything too hideous, destructive, or unbearable.

The Old Powers Family Farm

        In a small valley above the Allegheny River sits the remnants of the old Powers Family farm. Every morning, I wake up to light peering through the same shagbark hickory that watched over my mother as a child. My house is held up by eighty-year-old logs, offspring of the ancient red oaks that have framed my family's land since 1780. I walk to school along Powers Run Road, named after my ancestors, and pass O’Hara elementary school, which resides over the old Powers' strawberry fields.
        Growing up in an environment so full of my mother's Protestant history has separated me from my Jewish heritage, so I do not know what grew around my father's family. I can only assume that wheat and soybeans were among their staple crops like other Eastern European Jews. My backyard instantly connects me to the Powers family, but I had to go to a screening of Woman in Gold in order for the Holocaust to resonate with me after seventeen years. That same night I returned home in an attempt to further process my peoples' suffering, but I could not ignore the irony of gaining such awareness while standing on land colonized by my mother's family.
        Before that night I thought that the Powers farm had only been covered with strawberries, lettuce, yams, and other produce that sustained the region. Today, I notice more of the broomrape that came over with my European ancestors. This foreign, parasitic plant lacks any chlorophyll, so it latches onto the roots of its host, sucking away nutrients. Today, I reflect on the Shawnee Native Americans who once thrived across Western Pennsylvania in a small valley above the Allegheny River before colonialism was brought from overseas.
The roots of colonialism extend from my yard out, constricting indigenous people around the globe. I first witnessed this expanse while teaching visual art and music with my parents in Nicaragua. In the rural coffee cooperative of El Porvenir, we worked to foster creative and critical thinking in response to the poverty caused by foreign intervention from 16th Century Spanish imperialism to late 20th century U.S. political presence in the Nicaraguan Revolution. During our two visits to El Porvenir, our goal was to create not artists and musicians, but observers and questioners who can see their environment and their reality differently and can thus self-determine their futures against the pressures of oppressive foreign endeavors.
        I returned home from Nicaragua awakened to my role as a descendant of both the oppressors and the oppressed. As a white male raised and nurtured off of stolen land, I must actively decolonize my mind from thoughts of white supremacy, misogyny, and all other systems of inequality that benefit me. As I remove the broomrape from my yard, I see how the Powers farm is a model for the world - one that I can help to decolonize by making policies which challenge the advantages of my ancestry and create equal opportunity for all people.