Loving my curly hair took 30 years
But finally, we have arrived.
“I don’t control my hair. It controls me.”
For thirty-something years, this was true. An admission of submission to the genetic forces beyond my control. My hair was curly, very curly, and only so much could be done to tame it.
As a young girl in the Late Eighties, I sported a big brown bob. It was short, dark and noticeably round, like a Bichon Frise. Of course, I did not choose this hairstyle. My parents, who had this same hairstyle at the same time, bequeathed it to me. Most families went for matching sweaters, but I guess that sentiment translated to our hair, which my mom used hair picks for instead of brushes. She still maintains I looked fabulous. That people stopped her all the time to ask about my perm.
Self-awareness kicks in around age twelve, and thankfully, my hair had grown. But at that point, the curls tangled together, a knotted labyrinth of pain for my scalp. I discovered Herbal Essences in a commercial with a naked woman who appeared pleasured by it the shower. I’m not sure I knew what that meant, but it smelled botanical and felt “adult,” which gave me lots of clout at overnight camp. That’s where a fellow tween first introduced me to a blow dryer with brush attachment, the first tool to ever make me think my hair didn’t need to be curly. I brushed, and brushed, and brushed, its low-voltage current not enough to straighten but enough to turn me into a walking Liberty Bell. I knew it wasn’t great, but it was the start of something.
I had a friend in high school who used so much gel that her curls were rock solid. No frizz but no movement, and they always looked wet. I followed her lead for a while, using a combination of Frizz-Ease mousse and cheap hairspray. Sure, this resulted in pimples from the grease constantly sweeping across my cheeks, but the look felt on-brand with my dark lip liner and smoky eyes, and it was nothing another layer of powder couldn’t mask.
But soon came denial, in college. The very notion of my curly hair disgusted me from the second I rushed a sorority. I realized most young women I met did not have this hair, and if they did, they hid it. As a gift, my cousin mailed me my first CHI flatiron, which might as well have been the cure to cancer in my most insecure phase. Morning and night, I ironed and sprayed, ironed and sprayed. My poker straight locks lasted mere minutes in swamps of North Central Florida, but for those first exciting moments of pre-party photos, I looked like everyone else, which was all I wanted.
And then, life. Real life. The life with business hours and responsibilities to people and things other than myself. I didn’t have time for ironing and re-ironing. I certainly didn’t have time after my first daughter was born, when I was just lucky to secure a workout, or a shower, but barely ever both. Slicked back ponytails and braids became the norm. They never looked nice, but they eliminated my hair from the equation altogether.
I think, in a sense, I accepted not looking nice. I didn’t think caring about my appearance was an option when I could barely figure out how to sustain my job and rear a newborn for the first time. People would ask why I didn’t try a chemical straightening process, like Keratin or the Brazilian Blowout. Aside from my fear of unknown chemicals, I liked to get highlights, and my already-thinning mane could only take so much. I also think, somewhere underneath the follicles, I was holding out hope to find another solution.
I am overjoyed to declare, I finally have. Thirty-something years of trial, error, burning, and blowing have led me to these products and tools, my arsenal of hair artistry. For curls, Morrocanoil Curl Defining Cream has been a complete game changer, keeping my hair buoyant and defined but soft to the touch. For added definition and volume once dry, I then spray Bumble and bumble. Thickening Dryspun Texture Spray all over. This is not to say I don’t still pull, and twirl, and iron for the right occasion – that is what the Dyson Airwrap is for.
I am not sure if it’s the products or self-acceptance that have gotten me to this place. It’s probably a bit of both. But for the first time, I am at peace with what I’ve been given, and that’s not something I’m looking to hide.
The little things
Good hair days look different now. After a late afternoon swim a couple weeks ago, we had plans to attend a backyard party. I didn’t have time for a blowout, nor would it stick on such a humid night. So I went for it, au naturel.
Also
I am pretty deliberate about what I share and do not share on the internet. During the pandemic, though, I loosened my standards. Many parents have, in an effort to stay connected with others and cope with challenges. Last week, The Lily published a thoughtful piece on “sharenting,” the practice of sharing content about your children on social media.
What is appropriate? What is too much? Experts and moms weigh in.