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没有什么比一头难看的自来卷更让我郁闷的了，当发型师将我的头发改造成漂亮的波波头时我喜出望外。为了保持这美丽的造型，不惜每半年花费几百美金，直到有一天，我终于无力承受这美丽的代价…… by Alexandra Gelfenbein For years I grappled and fought with the bird’s nest that sat on top of my head—my Medusa mane, a composition of frizz and giant ringlets that in no way could be tamed. Growing up in a Russian-Jewish home with parents who thought North American styling products were akin to illegal substances such as heroin, I was never allowed to put them in my hair. “Why buy gel? Your hair is so beautiful naturally,” my mother would say. The tweens at school did not agree. From boys not wanting to kiss me when we played spin the bottle in Grade 7 to being called “the mop,” I suffered for my unruly hair. People always say that you want the hair you don’t have, but having unmanageable curly hair goes deeper than that. It’s like being in a war with more than your scalp—it’s your self-esteem. You feel messy and disorderly, with your curls reflecting that attitude. When I got to university, I believed my frizzy hair was a wedge that stood between me and everything—finding an internship, getting a boyfriend. If only I could find a way to police the frizz and put it behind bars, I told myself, I would feel secure and sexy. I tried everything: rollers, hairspray, gels and, at one point, an iron. | 
