From the White Notebook


There was a time when my hair was curly.
HA. I know, you cock your brow and eye my tresses. As delightful as they may be now, my curls are not the ringlets they once were.
Like the rest of me, they have grown old and curl not as dramatically. No more corkscrews, no more perfectly curved strands. And perfect, they were.
Stylists worked hard to make Mary Pickford’s turn so. When she silently shook her head, they bounced so charmingly. Silently, her hair made audiences fall in love with her.
Mine turned on their own. They, and an innocent propensity to be a ham, caused all my adorers to give me their attention.
Oh, my hair. My one true beauty. Like for Jo, it’s the reason he stops and takes a second look. It’s how he’ll speak of me to his friends. It’s happened before:
“Oh, her, the one with the hair.”
That’s not to say you have no beauty, but my curls, aged and faded as they are, are still more magnificent than most toddering around me.
Offense, do not take. I am not tall. I am not loud. I have not a face to launch 1,000 ships. Your hair is fine; your hair is pretty. Just not as pretty as mine.
Do. Not. Fret.
I have a zit on my jaw. No one sees my eyes, they see my glasses. My canines flank my snaggle tooth, while my lone lateral incisor makes up for its size with a vicious point.
Give me my hair. My aging curls. The sometimes bushy, deep brunette that lies sometimes low, but mainly pouffs. My mane, my locks, my tresses, my curls.
At least, what’s left of them.


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