CHAPTER THREE
The Hindi word for hair is baal.
I was glued to the TV as I watched the New Zealand model Lorraine Downes being crowned Miss Universe. As she waved delicately at the camera with her blonde hair, hazel eyes and a smile that dazzled, I thought no one on earth could come close to being a Barbie doll brought to life. You may have heard the saying ‘Plain Jane,’ well that’s me, except, replace the name Jane with Julie. When I studied my reflection in the mirror, I would say to the Julie staring back at me, “Well, my dear, there is nothing exciting about you, this is as good as it gets.” And what did I see staring back at me? Red hair, freckles and ordinary boring brown eyes, would I ever find a man who thought I was a Lorraine Downes, a Miss Universe? The answer was a downhearted, despairing…‘No.'
I would never find love, who would or could love me? Make-up couldn’t hide my freckles so I hardly bothered even trying to attempt to wear it, a smear of lipstick was my idea of make-up. As for my hair, don’t get me started on my hair, it was wavy and hard to manage at the best of times.
It was even harder to look at myself in the mirror on rainy, muggy or humid days when my hair was all over the place like a mop, seemingly having a mind of its own. It frizzed with the humidity making it bushy and boofy and depression, like a mantle fell over me. On these days I would avoid the mirror as much as possible, hurriedly brush it and tie it up in a ponytail with a bundle of hairclips, firmly pinning each strand onto my head. I hoped no loose curls would escape to stick out and wave in the wind, triumphantly exclaiming, ‘Ha, ha we are free!’
My despondent mood grew worse as I foolishly compared myself to the singer Crystal Gayle. As I watched her sing ‘don’t it make my brown eyes blue’ I was more captivated with her hair than her sultry voice. Boy! did she have alot of hair! Straight, shiny, glossy and exceptionally long! As a girl who wished for hair just like hers, I recklessly put my hand on my heart and hastily vowed I would never cut my hair again. But in reality I knew my hair would never be blonde like Lorraine Downes and as it seemed to grow out not down, I would never have hair as long as Crystal Gayle’s.
I was slim, at least that was a good thing and of average height - petite, simple, ordinary features that once again added up to me being a ‘Plain Jane,' there was nothing about me to stand out in a crowd. I got called all of the usual things at school: carrot top, ginger nut, freckle face and oh yes, once I was even called a pixie. No man on the planet would ever fall in love with a plain, boring, freckle faced, red headed, pixie!
Being the youngest, my siblings, Andrew and Sarah had already paved the way for me. Over the past few years I had watched quietly on the side-lines as they had travelled through adolescence. They had waded through all manner of trials and tribulations that are part of a normal teenager’s existence. Quietly, I had observed as, one by one, Andrew then Sarah had left home.
I was four years younger than my sister, Mum had not planned on having any more children after her, then unexpectedly, four years later along came a surprise - me! My brother and sister had brown hair and brown eyes, the complete opposite to me, they looked like siblings, they looked like our parents. When I was born Mum was astounded as she caught sight of my tuff of red tresses. At family gatherings as I was the only person with hair the colour of fire, the discussion invariably ended up being about my possible heritage. Jokes were made about the milkman being a red head and just what else had he been doing when he brought the milk? Someone else suggested maybe my colouring was a throw-back from some Scottish ancestor but really, no one knew.
During my childhood my family occasionally attended our local Anglian church. We would all arrive on a Sunday morning adorned in our best clothes. Sarah and I would wriggle and complain as Mum had dressed us in the exact same itchy frock. White, with lace and frills and a baby blue ribbon tied at the waist, these special clothes were not allowed to be worn on any other day of the week - they were clothes kept for Sunday best. After the main church service, all of the children were ushered off to a separate part of the church hall to attend Sunday school. Church was firstly a place to worship but it was also a place to gather and meet with the residents of the neighbourhood, to gossip, organise baking stalls and market days.
As I matured I didn’t technically follow any religion seriously, though I did find solace in praying at night before sleeping. Lying in bed with the covers pulled up, I would quietly place my palms together and softly whisper. I believed in being positive so I prayed for peace on earth and the end of famine and poverty. But most of all I fervently prayed to meet a man: someone who was kind, sincere, loyal and honest.
Was there anyone out there who would take me on?