That Girl from Derwent dwells on the value of religion this Christmas.
That Girl from Derwent has learned a few more things about prejudice since moving up North.
That Girl From Derwent reckons if you're going to be offensive, you should find a better reason.
That Girl from Derwent considers why it is that some words have wider implications than others.
The routine cutting of my hair occurred every two months when I was a child. I had no say in how it was to be cut; ‘short back and sides’ seemed to be the compulsory haircut for my brothers and me. My parents had obviously settled upon this as the uniform hairstyle for their children. Luckily, I had no sisters or else they may have justifiably being quite annoyed at their decision. Even as a boy, I was quite annoyed by it myself. I distinctly remember wanting long hair. As my teenage years approached, my wish finally came true and my parents tolerated the growing of my hair.
I was content; I could finally mask my face behind layers of hair. My large forehead and oddly shaped ears would be hidden from the world. Unfortunately, once I actually grew my hair, it turned out it was much curlier than I anticipated. When grown, my hair closely resembled a murky brown cloud that had descended from the sky and positioned itself awkwardly and uncomfortably upon my head.
My hair wasn’t ridiculously long but it was curly and bushy enough to attract attention. Strangers would feel it within their right to comment on it or, in some bizarre cases, touch it. Some would do it without asking, others would be ‘polite’ enough to ask. As a side note, if you’ve ever asked someone if you could touch their hair and thought you were bring ‘quirky’ or humorous, you weren’t. You were just one of many in a long line of people who put that person in the bizarre situation of having to either let a stranger touch their hair or unfairly appear unreasonable and say that they can’t, fully aware that they’ll probably do it anyway. In summary, you were being a bit of a prick.
I don’t know what it is about curly hair that creates in other people the sense that they have a socially established right to touch it. I’d like to clarify that no such right exists. No one should be subjected to having a stranger’s equally strange hands fondling their hair for no good reason. As if such physical torment isn’t enough, you also have to put up being told you look like every other curly haired person ever to have existed. Basically, if you have curly hair, that is criteria enough for comparisons with anyone else with curly hair. This isn’t just limited to people or even animals. A balloon which has had its upper half coated with fluffy wool would probably suffice as a lookalike.
Although it’s significantly more restrained nowadays, I still have what I’m perfectly aware is a pretty naff and very curly haircut. More frequently than I’d like, people feel a compulsion to tell me that they think my hair isn’t very nice. I always struggle to comprehend why people think that I’d like to know that they think negatively of my hair. Are they expecting me to have a sudden revelation and hack away at my curls to appease their hatred? I tend not to do that, instead I just wonder why they care, laugh insincerely and say “oh ok”. You just get used to it. Such are the pains of curly hair.
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