Gloria...my Gloria

I used to have a hair alter-ego. Her name was Gloria, and she had fabulous hair. Gloria usually showed up on salon day with a to-die for cute crop, hair all shiny and bouncy, ends neatly trimmed, perm freshly applied. It was glorious being Gloria. I loved her.

Last year, after my skin and hair rejected the perm, Gloria packed up her sh*t and left. Taking with her the heady scent of fresh no-lye relaxing. Gone were the days of admiring glances at my trendy, closely cut flyness. Gloria was just gone. All I had to remember her by was a cabinet full of Gold n’ Hot curling irons in assorted sizes, an old silk head scarf and half a stick of Paul Mitchell slick pomade. Now, I’m the one who glances sideways at other women on salon day. Their hair all sleek and chic; mine twisting and curling, knotting and napping and doing just about any damn thing it wants whether or not I agree.

I am not this hair. But what hair am I? Is it Bonquisha, Ms. Clairol, or Shenappy-happy? I don’t know, but I’m having an ongoing hairdentity crisis and my hair SOSs have so far left me SOL. Man, I miss Gloria.



I never considered myself to be that girl…the one who ties her identity to her hairstyle. I laughed secretly at women–-strange ones and known ones--who felt long hair is the only it…smirking in arrogance because I had the cheekbones and the flair for barely there hair. Rolling my eyes as they flick born or bought hair over their shoulders, hair which honestly made them look way too old. But that was then, when I was in control of my hair.

Now that my locks are firmly in control of me, the joke is on me. This wild, wiry mane laughing outright. Taunting me to try, just try, to do something about it. And so I do, tussling and twisting and detangling with all my might, for hours on end. Only to be reminded minutes, hours or days later, that, yes, I am in fact this hair, so we might as well settle down and get to know each other.

Day by day, I’m learning. And that’s all I can do, really. But if you see Gloria, if you spot her turning a corner, hair gleaming and looking fly, tell her don’t forget about me. I’m waiting anxiously for her return.