Rapunzel, Genetics, and The Topic Of Beauty

Welcome back to my parlor, make yourself comfortable. One thing I have not mentioned in my other ramblings, is the fact that I have children. I haven’t spoken about them because, as amusing as I find some of the bizarre things they do, I’m sure they won’t appreciate having that available on the internet, even with my current readership of two people. They’ll be posting things on the internet that they’ll regret soon enough, and they deserve to find out about that on their own. However I have been going through something that some people may relate to in some fashion.

If you follow me on instagram (branchofgreenfigs, one of these days I’ll figure out how to link it) you will know that I am culturally ambiguous. I’m biracial, without any outstanding features that identify me as anything. I have been told I would make an excellent spy. My daughter however, received every Northern European gene on both sides of her genome. She is pale, with blue eyes, and curly blonde hair, the complete opposite of me. In fact the day after she was born, my doctor came in and asked “how the hell did you have a blonde baby?” At 5 she knows her own mind, holds strong opinions, and is not afraid to try to back-flip off the couch. So imagine my surprise, when one night my beautiful cherub of a daughter started crying and asked me “why aren’t I pretty?” I was flabbergasted. I demanded to know who told her that. “No one. But I don’t look like you! I want to be brown like you and Papa!” Gentle reader. I was astounded. I assured her she was beautiful, and that she happened to take after her father. This was apparently offensive, and there were more tears.

Recently she has started begging me to straighten her hair. She has beautiful ringlets, which she refuses to allow to be cut. I also have very long hair, which I straighten to within an inch of its life. My hair and I have a very complicated relationship. By complicate I mean I despise it. Too thick, too curly, too much a signifier of being “other”. The thing bullies always latched on to make fun of me as a child. I realized, the minute it starts to curl, or it starts to rain, or the wind blows the wrong way, I start to act like my hair possibly looking anywhere close to its natural state is the end of the world. 

How much of my self-loathing am I passing along to my children? I thought I was careful, but I realized, I sneer at myself every time I walk past a mirror. I rarely have anything nice to say about myself. And the production I throw over my hair. I might as well sit them down and drill into them all the insecurities they need to be terrified of life.

What to do with my newly found self-awareness? It’s hard to change yourself, and deeply rooted behaviors, but I’m giving it the old college try. To start I’m going to work on loving my natural hair. It’s a little terrifying to think that they’re always watching you, and their brains are absorbing everything you do. Will I ever completely stop straightening my hair? That’s a hard no, but, I need to get myself to the point that I don’t act like I’m going to turn into Medusa every time it starts to drizzle. If they’re going to inherit any of my behaviors, I need to make darn sure they only get the good ones.

Until next time gentle reader, may your isolation be peaceful, and may your Earl Grey always be hot.