The Vindication of Gillian Belchier

When I was a teenager I hated my hair. It was thick, but straight. Straighter than straight. I once confided to a classmate that I was envious of her pretty, reddish curls. Gillian replied that she disliked them, because it made it impossible for her to "do anything" with her hair. The years went by and Mr. Teasy Weasy gave way to Vidal Sassoon. Good hairdressers insisted that a good cut more than made up for curls.

The years passed and I really didn't pay much attention to my hair:  I was way too busy. I do recall a rather dubious perm, but for the most part my hair was short—until it got long, then it was cut and we started all over again.  As it turned more and more grey, I decided that the days of shoulder length hair were over. But for some reason last spring I made one last effort to grow my hair. Not a very intelligent thing to do in one of the hottest summers on record. It wasn't long enough to tie back or short enough to allow my neck to breathe. So I had it cut and voilà—curls, springing all over the place. And I can't "do anything" with them.

Problem is, the curls are just on one side of my head.