I grew up with the kind of hair envied by all but those who have it. Curly to the point of corkscrews, thick, brown, and with a mind of its own. The kind of hair that most don't understand requires a stylist on call 24/7 to fulfil those Beyonce fueled dreams. I didn't hate it, but I did resent it when I'd watch my friends easily going from down to bun, and back again or happily flicking it around to my dismay. I didn't even make it to high school before I found comfort in the hot metal panes of a flat iron, begging my mother to wake up early to help me straighten out every last wave, curl, or sign of life.
People would ask me why I didn't wear my hair curly, and even that made me resent it more. I in turn made my pretty manageable mane sound infinitely worse than it was by way of justification, and over the years ended up convincing myself it was the truth.
For about 2 years this was my reality, before it became so battered and broken that I was forced to chop it all off. A reality at 14 that seemed to be the end of the world as I knew it. That being said, the lesson didn't quite seem to stick.
It was again, when I got to college, that I retreated to the familiar comfort of my flat iron. Meeting new people and experimenting with a new look and style, my curly mane seemed too young, childish, and didn't fit the new adult persona I had envisioned for myself. I've always been a severe dresser, be it severely bohemian or the exact opposite. I gravitate to black clothes, clean lines, a cat eye. Curls, in my mind, just didn't fit that aesthetic.
One has to realize what a commitment it was for someone who loves sleep as much as I do to wake up 2 hours earlier than needed to make sure there wasn't so much as a wave in sight. Even the discomfort I felt at the slightest sign on sweat, was ignored to maintain the image I'd grown to believe was the prettiest, most fashionable, and desirable. I walked around with a mini flat iron in my purse for months. It's still in my desk here at work, in fact.
For a while, the straight thing seemed to be working out. I toyed with styles from long, to a severe A-line bob, all while getting a Keratin treatment every 3 months (at least…) I thought I'd found the perfect formula for maintaining the image previously described. I felt fierce, fashionable, and sleek. And had I ever considered going natural again, that consideration certainly didn't involve a drastic cut. After 20+ cycles of America's Next Top Model -specifically the makeover episode- I knew I didn't have the angular cheekbones like Cassandra, or the same striking look as Jaeda I felt a short, edgy haircut needed. I've grown used to my full cheeks and rounded facial features, but to me there was no question they required something significantly safer.
In truth, my hair was damaged... Again. There were little signs I tried to ignore, so in the end, I only had myself to blame when it became too great to ignore. When january 1, 2016 rolled around, I made the decision to retire the flat iron in hopes of letting my breakage catch up to the long, healthy part of my hair by wearing low buns, braids, etc. I was clinging to the length I had waited so long to see, but the sad reality was the rest of my hair was in such a damaged state, I'd be wearing those buns and braids indefinitely, because the prospect of catching up really wasn't in sight.
While in the back of my head I knew this, there is something about a woman and her hair that makes it impossible to see things clearly and make the hard decision. That, too, is the burden of natural hair, especially when GOING natural. People will assume you just didn't do you hair that day, thinking of the natural kinks and curls as imperfections that need to be smoothed into place.
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Now that it's been done and the metephorical band aid has been ripped off, as cliche as it may sound, I feel like I'm my most authentic self. I was so attached to this idea of being prettier with straight hair (and I'd be lying if I said I wasn't still trying to overcome that feeling) that even when I was limited to a handful of options I still clung to the security and was unwilling to lose even the most damaged inches. This wasn't an empowered decision. I wish it was. But it's time I practice what I preach and love myself as I am. I've come to the conclusion that as with contouring or beauty trends in general, what works and looks beautiful on one person might not be right for me, and I shouldn't force it to be.
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