Curls

A tale of childhood. And my gran.

Curls

I was nearly seven when my brother was born. Everyone was apparently enchanted by this event, but I reserved judgement.
I am probably still doing so.
For reasons which escaped me at the time, it was felt necessary to commemorate his first birthday with a joint portrait of the two of us. As far as I could see this would involve me in holding the little horror so he did not get near enough to the photographer to destroy his camera or any other expensive kit within range.
Having my photograph taken was one of my least favourite things; it still is. Some fool waving a lens and urging me to “smile” always makes me freeze. I have no idea how to smile on demand and I end up either simpering, smirking or looking as if I have lost my grip on sanity. However, my mother in pursuit of immortality her children, was unstoppable and she was enthusiastically supported by both my grandmothers.
My small round gran was a needlewoman of consummate skill and she made me a dress of white fabric with lemon polka dots all over it. It was pretty and it fitted perfectly and I hated it, T-shirt and shorts being my idea of haute couture.
She also made the horror a matching outfit in white and lemon. That was also very pretty and he looked nice in it, until he got down on the floor and turned it two shades of grey, but that was later.
My other large and lean gran was not going to be left out of this. She bought new shoes for both of us, but this was not enough; these would not be seen in the picture, so her mind turned to a subject very dear to her heart - my hair.
(By the way, the horror was nearly bald at the time and, ironically, time and age have returned him to this state, but I digress…)
Nature had endowed me with thick shiny brown hair so straight Romans could have used it to plan a road. No ribbon stayed in it for more than five minutes; nor did any slide, gripe or other embellishment and this was a source of much frustration to Gran.
She had left school to work in the Nottingham lace mills when she was only twelve. It took her two years to save enough money for her train fare to London where she found work as a nursery maid in a very smart house, the sort of house where a Victorian Nanny still ruled and little girls had ringlets. For my gran ringlets remained her ideal juene fille coiffure.
My hair was too short for them, but not for curls and she was determined I would have curls for the portrait.
I might have been safe if my Mother had not also yearned for curls. She had spent a lot of time and money on trying to get my hair to obey, but without any success. Now here was gran with the light of battle in her eyes and the promise of curls which would last. Mother was inclined to be cynical, but was unable to resist the allure of a daughter with a head full of fat rolls of shining hair.
Gran saw the cynicism and was challenged. Armed with all Nanny had taught her, I was going to be photographed with stunning hair and she was the one who was going to make it happen.
Had I been older, wiser or swifter on my feet, I would have found an escape route and possibly passage on a boat to somewhere safer, like a war zone, but I was trapped by two experienced women with a mission.
The day before the photo session Gran descended on us after dinner. It was not her usual time for visiting and I suddenly had the same feeling I am sure a trapped rabbit has just before the fox opens it’s jaws. My pudding spoon had only just made its last happy journey from the bowl to my face when she hauled me out of my chair and off to the bathroom.
“Your hair needs to be wet,” she told me.
She did not actually drown me, she had after all been an experienced nursery maid, but she made lavish use of a very large jug, copious amounts of the sort of shampoo which leaves you with eyes redder than a London bus and she was not one to molly coddle with warm water when cold worked just as well.
I protested, wailed and did a fair bit of crying and pleading, but she was deaf to it all. When I finally emerged, dripping, from the bathroom I found my mother hovering outside; I gave her a look I hoped would have her wracked with guilt for the rest of her life.
What followed was worse. Gran produced a bag full to the brim with long strips of fabric torn from an old sheet.
“Curling rags,” she told my mother in triumph. “Nothing works better, not even the hot tongs.”
My eyes met Mother’s at the words “hot tongs” and she mouthed “no tongs” at me. I was not sure if this meant Gran was tongless or that Mother was anti-tong, but either would do.
Now, for those of you without a grandmother like mine, here is how you rag hair. I have to say, I used the technique myself during my Pre-Raphaelite phase ( do not ask) , but for the happily ignorant… you take two strips of fabric and one section of wet hair and you plait ( Americans say “braid” ) them together, making sure you firmly knot the fabric at both ends so they do not come undone. Once your whole head is a delicious mass of fabric/hair ropes, you leave the whole to dry naturally, preferably overnight.
By the time Gran had finished, my head was covered in a mass of short stubby lumps and a very large number of knots.
“She will have to sleep in the rags,” Gran said. “And don’t take them out until just before you leave.”
The next morning, after a sleepless night spent trying to find a place on my pillow where a knot was not digging into me, I was in a very militant mood and determined to make sure every picture was ruined by frowning and, hopefully, dropping the horror on his head!
My brother was bedecked in his new outfit and then caged in the pushchair in the hope he would stay clean for a while and I was threatened, bribed and blackmailed into my dress.
Then came THE MOMENT.
As I sat, scuffing my new shoes against the chair leg, Mother began to unfetter my hair. As the rags fell to the ground her smile grew wider and the light of love shorn in her eyes. She did a tiny bit of titivating with a brush and then presented me with a mirror.
“There!” she said, in triumph. “Gran will be so pleased.”
I saw something I had never seen before ( or since), myself with a head full of shining, curling ringlets. They were not very long, but they clustered charmingly around my head and for once I looked exactly like the sort of little girl who loves her baby brother and plays with dollies and whose white ankle socks as still white at the end of the day.
A total and complete fake of course, but it was not completely revolting and I thought I could bear it for a short while.
As I gazed at this fiction I noticed something. It was very slight at first, but it was there and I could not keep the smirk from my face and I grinned up at my mother.
She looked, looked again and then said.
“Run!”
And we ran all the way to the studio.
I’ve still got the pictures. Me smiling at the camera, holding the horror and pointing to something which is making him laugh with delight. Our clothes look beautiful, even in old black and white photos and…if you look very closely, you can just about make out a slight wave in my smooth, shining hair.

(c)Bev Allen 2013