It’s not just black women who have problems with their hair, you know. I haven’t seen Chris Rock’s documentary “Good Hair” yet, but I sure hope he thought to include the Jewfro – a seldom-discussed scourge that has plagued those of Jewish descent for decades. All you Jew-girls in the house, you know what I’m talking about. Unless you’re one of the lucky few, you’ve been through the same hell as I have, trying every treatment on the market to achieve that smooth, straight, shiny, flyaway look. It’s completely and utterly impossible, you know…we will never achieve that fashion magazine ideal.

Large, kinky and indefatigable, the Jewfro is all-powerful, beating even the most robust relaxers.  You can always tell the presence of a Jewfro, even if there’s been an attempt to straighten it, because there’s a small, tell-tale crimp at the hairline that just cannot be vanquished.  My sister and I, who have differing amounts of curl (her wavy, me frizzy-kinky-horrible) both have the “Jew-wave” and no flat iron, curling iron, Japanese straightener or Brazilian keratin hair treatment can make it go away. Trust me when I tell you, we’ve both tried.

I actually have to plan my day around my hair.  I can only wash it every other day or two or it dries out and won’t behave.  It takes 45 minutes to an hour to blowdry, flat iron and generally coerce into shape. One hint of sweat and it frizzes back up, so I do everything I can not to raise my body temperature. I don’t wear sweaters, jackets or long sleeves unless absolutely necessary. I don’t work out unless I’m on second day hair.  I don’t mess around unless I’m on second day hair.  This filamentous outgrowth of dead cells sprouting from my head actually controls my every waking moment, every day.

How much do I wish that enormous, crazy-looking hair was in fashion?  Sure, we Jews have had our shining moments in history when the Jewfro actually entered into the mainstream.  Take for example, that period of time when Jesus was wandering around, wearing a long white schmata and sandals.  Big curly hair was all the rage and his acolytes had it in spades.  I would have fit right in.

Then there was the 70s when flowing, “Free to Be You and Me” hair was in vogue.  From ages 6-16, I could actually wash and go feeling confidant that my hair was au courant and looked no nuttier than anyone else’s.  Men had it, women had it, even Asians got perms so they could have it – Mike Brady hair.

Then the 80s rolled around…my favorite decade of all. Hair reached new heights, mostly thanks to Tina Turner and her strategically-placed combs.  I reveled in my natural assets, teasing my hair as large as human hair could possibly go.  While I still needed product to control it, I was the envy of all my straight-haired friends who tried in vain to Aquanet their way to big hair greatness.

My happy days ended in the early 90s when the fascination with stick-straight hair began.  I burned my scalp with lye-based relaxers, purchased in the ethnic section of the drug store and applied alone at home.  It probably would have helped if I’d read the directions first…“apply an inch from the scalp so as to avoid third-degree burns.” I can still remember the scabs.

I soon turned to the new Japanese straightener, applied for $400 at the hair salon over a period of about five hours. Stinky as ammonia and bleach rolled together, the stuff was applied and then combed through continuously.  The result; flat, completely unshiny, Fuller Brush-like hair.  Years passed as I waited for this disaster to grow out, leaving me with inches of healthy curly hair, topped by inches of dry straw.  Lovely.

I tried to go natural for a while, battling with the never-ending blow-outs until I heard about the Keratin treatment. Even more expensive, it promised to leave a little natural wave and most importantly, an attractive, noticeable sheen.  Sign me up, I said. About six hours later, I had what looked to be manageable, good-looking hair. As I was preparing to leave the salon, my stylist warned, “make sure you only use XX brand of shampoo or the entire process will be reversed.” Well, of course she didn’t carry that brand and it was available nowhere.  It had to be purchased on the internet.  By the time it arrived, I’d been forced to use something else and the destruction had begun.  The internet shampoo smelled like crap and left my hair feeling greasy, so it was completely unusable.  Before long, the mop was back to its old self and $500 had been washed down the drain.

Fast forward to today, I have just about given up.  I’ve accepted the fact that my hair seceded from the union long ago and all I can do is appease it.  I’ve found ways to manage it just enough to get by…most of the time.  But it is omni-present still, and controlling as always.  Not to mention that a new wrinkle has been factored into the equation – grays. While my parents didn’t turn gray till they were well into their fifties, I now see hundreds of the crinkly, nasty little bastards sneaking their way onto my scalp.  Not content to torture me in familiar ways, my hair has thought up a new scheme, guaranteed to make me even crazier.

One of these days you and I will make a truce, hair.  Or maybe I’ll shave you off…what do you think about that? Then who’ll have the upper hand?  Or I’ll just start wearing you in a bun and stop paying attention to you.  No, you’re right, that’ll never happen.  You’re still the boss and always will be.  I hate you, Jewfro. Unless big hair comes back in, like shoulder pads.  Then we can be friends again.

I am sitting on a plane to Chicago, flipping through a fashion magazine, when I come across a review for a new shampoo.  I must admit that I have never been confused with a fashionista, and I have long since stopped trying to follow the fashion world.  I was not cut out, or have a body made, to follow the latest trends.  So I pretty much reserve the act of flipping through fashion magazines to long flights.

Mucky* beauty editor Mean Modfrey-Mune* asked, “What would you pay for a shampoo that guaranteed you an “above-and-beyond” great hair day?”  I pondered this question for some time.  I hadn’t had a good hair day since 1991, so I’m thinking I’d pay a pretty penny for the promise of a hair day like that.

Ms. Modfrey-Mune said she “found a true hair miracle, but it ain’t cheap.” And she wasn’t kidding.  This stuff is $140.00 bucks.  That’s U.S., not Canadian.  Too rich for me, no matter how magical of a potion it may be.    Ms. Modfrey-Mune felt it was awfully pricey for herself as well.  However, I’m pretty sure being the beauty editor of a top shopping magazine, she got hers for free.

Flying over Nebraska I read on.  Ms. Modfrey-Mune went on to tell how others in her office tried the shampoo, all with amazing results.  It seemed that no matter what hair type a person had, this shampoo made your hair look like you just left a $700 dollar salon. (Up until this point I was unaware of $700 dollar salons).  “Whatever you wish for your hair, the shampoo grants the wish,” Ms. Modfrey-Mune told me.

Days later I am shopping on Michigan Avenue, when I happen upon an upscale apothecary.  With visions of a magic shampoo, one that will change my hair, maybe even my life, I ask if they carry Phillip B Russian Amber.  They had not heard of it.  I beeline over to Sophora.  One person had heard of the magical shampoo, but she thought it only a myth.

This shampoo had become a mighty white whale.  So elusive, that I now HAD to have it and all of the magic that it possessed.

I went online and looked it up.  It was only sold at Barneys.  That figured, only truly magical yet extremely expensive things are sold at Barneys.

The next day I am on a one and a half mile trek through the city to a Barneys.  I could take a cab, but I figure magical shampoo deserves a quest.  I need to suffer for its magic.  And I do.  I have a blister from the shoes I bought on Oak Street, and I think that I am getting shin splints.

I find the shampoo in the basement, at the far corner of the store.  The smartly dressed sales lady presents it to me, poised in her outstretched cupped hands.  The jar is glowing.

I am a little disappointed that it is made in Beverly Hills.  I had to come to Chicago to find something that is made where I live, and well honestly, I had expected it to be made somewhere mystical like Avalon.

“This stuff will change your life,” she tells me.  I am giddy.  I don’t even look at the total when I sign the slip.  I don’t care about the price anymore.

I am skipping back to my room, blisters and shin splints forgotten.  I am silly with anticipation at how having wonderful hair is going to change my life.  It will probably make me smarter.  I bet it will help me make friends and influence people.  I am sure I will look thinner.  What if I win the lottery because of this shampoo?????  Ms. Modfrey-June does call it a miracle after all.

There are only five ingredients in this miracle elixir.  My daughter Matie* and I are staring at it as it sits on a shelf in the bathroom.   We are a little afraid to open it.  I imagine a spray of sparkles erupting from it and a ray of light shooting around the room like something from a Marry Motter* movie.  Matie thinks that maybe we can reproduce it ourselves.  “I bet we can do it for only twenty-five bucks,” she says.

I scoff,  “there is no way we can ever get the exact formula right.  There is no way we possess the skills or the magical powers.”

The directions are simple.  “Take a small dollop.” I wonder what the difference is between a dollop and smear?  I lather it into hair, leave in three to five minutes, and rinse.  I notice that there is no “repeat.”  Something this powerful doesn’t need a repeat, I think to myself.

I let the bathroom fill with steam from the shower.  I light a candle.  It is lavender and fills the room with its pleasant scent.  I undress slowly, trying to squelch my exuberance.  I set the timer on my iPhone for four minutes.

It is exactly as Ms. Modfrey-Mune describes.  “(It) smells…spicily Russian-seeming, and the weirdest thing is that it looks, feels and acts like rubber.”

I do not blow dry.  I do not put in any additional hair products.  I do not rinse and repeat.

I find myself staring at myself in the mirror.  The shampoo did not make me smarter.  It has not helped with my interpersonal relationships.  I have not won the lottery.  I don’t look even one pound thinner.  It is not so magical after all.  But, my hair is lusciously thicker.  It is shiny and silky.  My hair has never looked this good.  I am finally going to have one damn good hair day.  What more could a girl ask for?