My grandmother loved my curls. I got them from her. Dad had them, too. But being a man, he kept his hair short. Mom came from straight-hair DNA. She didn’t know what to do with me. After I left the baby-curls stage, my hair was unruly. If I brushed through it, I looked like the SNL Rosanne Rosannadanna. So Mom talked me into short hair. Shorter than Dorothy Hamill. I washed my hair every morning. Blew it dry. When it grew out a little, I curled it, like a short, short Farrah. As an adult, I was done with short hair. I wanted to look feminine, and I thought long hair was feminine. So I grew it out. The only way to tame the hair was to blow it dry every time I washed it. Force it to go straight. Then take a large-diameter curling rod and curl it straight with a slight inward slant at the ends of my hair. Hours. I spent hours doing this–if you add up hair time every day, every week, every month every year for decades.
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