DRAMATIC MONOLOGUE Poem: HAIR, by Sarah Mock

My mother always had thin, straight blonde hair. It is dark and dirty blonde now and probably tinged with gray, though nobody has seen her natural color in decades. It serves as a beacon of her youth and beauty, with everyone telling me she was a MILF growing up. When they said, “How come your mother is so pretty?” they seemed to be saying, “How come you are not?”

My father always had thick, curly dark hair. “Good hair”, my mom said when I asked how she was ever able to marry him.

His parents were the same way. My grandfather called it “the family hair”. How proud he was that my brothers and I inherited it! He carried around a mirror and a brush, constantly checking, fixing, adjusting. Nobody has seen his natural color in decades.

My stepmother always had thin, pin-straight dark hair.

My mother once told me that during an episode of Mad Men, my father commented on how it made sense that blonde Betty Draper didn’t do it for Don anymore.

My stepsister always had the thinnest, straightest, blondest hair I have ever seen. I always thought it was weird that her mom had dark hair and she was blonde, while my mom had blonde hair and I was brunette.

Eventually, my father and stepmother gave me a brand-new baby brother. His hair has always been thin, straight, and blonde too. He looks like my stepsister but nothing like the rest of us. I wonder what about that house lightened both their heads. In moments like those, I am thankful mine is dark.

My oldest brother has thick, curly dark hair just like my dad. They are the spitting image of each other. All throughout high school, people told me, “Your brother is so cute. He has the best hair”. Now, at only 23 years old, he is irrationally afraid of balding. He buys prescription strength shampoo and anoints himself with special serum every morning to keep his curls intact. He is not balding, though. Just obsessive.

Another brother also has thick curly dark hair. It is long and everyone tells him it is beautiful. He is just starting high school so nothing is more important than looks right now. He is vain to a fault, but it is all he has ever known.

I used to have thick, curly dark brown hair. It was unmanageably long and my grandfather was so proud. He nearly cried when I cropped it to my shoulders, and almost had a heart attack when I dyed it pink. The bleach changed its chemical makeup and now it’s not curly. I don’t have signature, identifiable family hair anymore. But I do have signature, identifiable me hair.

I could pretend my family ties were severed at the same time as my locks, but I still share my face with my brothers. Just because I no longer have curly, dark pieces to frame my face does not mean I’ve lost interest in my hair. I am just as obsessive as the rest of them. I spend my days constantly checking, fixing, adjusting.

Because it is all I have ever known