My Dirty Little Secret

Here's a dirty secret: I haven't washed my hair in five days.

I would. I have nothing against shampoo. But I can’t wash my hair because I no longer know how. 

At some point during puberty, my nice, normal wavy locks took a twisted turn. I woke up one morning to find a mass of matted, frizzy poodle fur atop my yiddishe kop, and I had no idea what to do with it.  

Naturally, I did everything wrong: I brushed it. I blow-dried it. I applied product after product to it to make it look less… less… Jewish. But nothing worked. Like a bat mitzvah present I couldn’t return, I was stuck with it. 

Kids being the tolerant beings that they are made me feel totally comfortable with my new look by endowing me with such loving nicknames as “Cave Woman” and “Yeti.” 

Around this time, I read about a hairstylist named Ouidad who billed herself as a curly hair expert. A dubious distinction, I thought. How hard is it to be queen of hair that looks perpetually messy? Still, hearing about her helped me embrace my twisted tresses. 

I never became a curly expert, but I did make peace with the weird stuff growing out of my head, and I learned a few tricks (bye-bye hairbrush!).Over time, I came to see the fuzz, the fuss, the finger-in-the-outlet mess as a fate I could learn to live with.

Then I rediscovered Ouidad.

The woman I read about a lifetime ago has opened a salon in Santa Monica.

I went. I got cut. I got styled. And now I can never wash my hair again. 

After "slicing" my hair, Kate styled my locks in some magic way she described as “Rake and Shake” that sets each curl apart like a precious little gem. I have no idea what, exactly, she did, but I am now convinced that on the Seventh Day, G-d did not rest. He created the Rake and Shake, and He saw it was good. 

Using hair clips and advanced calculus, she separated my tresses into little tribes across my scalp. She then wiggled her fingers through each of them in a manner resembling someone ringing a bell, misting and blotting and geling as she went. When I told her that I doubted I’d be able to recreate this method at home, she tried to allay my fears. 

“Don’t worry,” she told me. “I’ll give you a book.” 

A book? Is there nothing our people can do without text? 

Sure enough, when I was done, Kate handed me a book explaining how to wash, dry and “Rake and Shake” my hair.  

I’ve powered through medical journals, legal briefs and Pynchon. But I can’t comprehend a manual explaining how to wash my own hair. And it comes with pictures! 

So, for the last five days, I’ve sacrificed a clean scalp for sculpted curls. And I’m going to keep going until I can no longer get away with it.  

Sure, it’s taken me back to the dark days of pubescent insecurity. Once again, I’m a greasy mess who doesn't know how to deal with the DNA heirloom on top of my head. 

But at least this time around, my confusion looks fantastic.

Comments

[Sean Ennis]

Hey, you should check out my friend, Jessicurl, online at jessicurl.com I'm bald, but all the curlies seem to like it.

[Keith]

Neither you nor your hair has ever looked bad for a day.

keith

[Merv the Perv]

Ouidad is french for ky-jelly.

[mayrav]

Come on down to So. Cal!

[Michelle Nicolosi]

I need a curly hair expert!