Jennifro

Salon Dominicana

When I was born my mother tells me that she thought they brought her the wrong baby;  she couldn't believe she'd produced something so curly (had she not seen my dad?) She kept my hair short, round and afro'd for the first few years of my life (claiming she didn't know what else to do).  By kindergarten it was in a bun, and round-about the third grade, me, my blow dryer and round brush became fast friends.  

Sweet mother, bless her,  sat on the floor Indian-style every Saturday night during Hee Haw/Lawrence Welk/Battlestar Galactica/Dukes of Hazzard (it was a never-ending process) and blew my kinks straight (ish).  How I deserved her I don't know.  I never once recall her complaining about it.  Those are some of my best memories of growing up.  Sitting close to my mom with her hands in my hair, hot air spilling over me, relaxing to the sound...it was wonderful.  I remember her getting up at 3 a.m. one time just to get it blown out before I left on a band trip in the early morning hours. Man, I love that woman. Little did I know that California, where we were headed, was humid and I'd spend half my pathetic time with my head under the hand dryer at Magic Mountain frantically trying to fight the unstoppable.

Mom single-handedly tamed my curls through the 70's and well into the 80's and most certainly saved my delicate self esteem in the process.  During that time nobody went natural unless it went something like THIS and I knew that look weren't for me.  

When Nick, among others, met me my Freshman year he had no idea what my real identity was, but by then, even I had nearly forgotten.  In May 1989, I went to the hippest, hottest hair dresser in the whole state of Orem--Steven Michael.  He dunked my head and out came the most intoxicating compliments a girl's ever heard.  Right then and there, with stars in my eyes, I vowed to him I would never blow dry again--"Embrace your curls baby--they're hot!"  It didn't hurt that the "granola" era was upon us and everyone was sportin' their "natural" look with Birkenstocks served up alongside.  So, basically what I'm getting at is I've now been curly longer than I ever was straight.  Funny, since I used to believe I'd hide them forever.  

So yesterday, I walked into my first Dominican Salon (every woman of color tells me the Dominicans work the magic) and walked out super-sleek for the first time in ages.  They didn't use any chemicals just put my hair in huge rollers, sat me under a dryer for an hour then blew out the roots a bit.  The pictures above are from this morning.  Upon awakening to straight, flat hair, all I knew to do was break out the curling iron and put some weenie rolls in it like I used to do two decades ago.  Can't say it looks that cute--but yesterday--when Jill cut and styled it I LOVED IT!  Oh well, guess nobody ever does it as stylie as the beauty operator, right Sisters?

Most people aren't really sure how to react when they see me.  Chief called me Froless all day and told me to bring back the fro.  Then tonight Camille said--"You go in the shower.  Get your curls back."  Oh, I will little girl.  But for now, let me run my fingers through my hair...