Power of the Pigtails

When I was five, they were crooked. My poor mother would straighten and adjust them, wetting my hair, tightening the elastics, but they stubbornly refused to be symmetrical. I would learn, years later, that my head was actually crooked. No matter. Balanced or not, I loved having them. I loved the array of plastic do-dads one could stick on them. I loved the way they swung and jiggled of their own volition. I loved the way my head had suddenly become a little more interesting, as if some wee landscaper had carved topiaries or stuck in a water feature. The pigtails had power.

I’m not sure when or where I lost them. Probably around the same time the word “cool” took on the same heavy significance as words like “entropy” or “fiscal responsibility”. Probably around the same time as I shot up six inches in six months, and felt like enough of a sideshow freak without things sticking out of my lumpy cranium, pointing to my mismatched body parts like flashing arrows. They made a brief appearance here and there, usually as a more sophisticated pony tail in the back, the same one my now-husband used to flick with a pencil in grade 11 math (flirting was so much simpler then). For the most part, I let them sag around my shoulders, a limp reflection of my teenage angst.

The final nail in the coffin came after my first year of university, when it was time to join the sensible ranks of the adults. Uncelebrated for years, they met their fate on the linoleum floor of a salon, and to avoid feeling guilty, I kept telling people to cut shorter and shorter. I traded my bobbled elastics for something as bleak as “hair product”.

A few weeks ago, ignoring my advanced age, they reappeared. They took advantage of my new, “Why not?” approach to my hair. It was mostly intended to get them out of my face while I worked, to make sure they didn’t wind up in someone’s dinner. There was a familiar pull, a feeling of lightness as they were lifted off my neck and into small rubber bands. I’m not sure if it was the cool breeze on my exposed skin, or perhaps the increased blood flow to my scalp, but the effect was euphoric. They were much shorter than they had been 30 years ago, and despite the help of modern cosmetic chemistry, there were a few wiry, silver ones mixed in. Nonetheless, we recognized each other immediately. They still bounced when I walked, and pointed to my face. Happily, they were still a little crooked too.