very curly hair

I have curly hair.

When I was a child, my hair was a nuisance. She tangled easily and I hated that my mom forced me to sit still for what seemed like hours so she could comb it. The comb tangled and tugged at my scalp, bringing tears to my eyes and howls of protest. Worse yet, the strangers we put on the street wanted to run their fingers through my hair. I still hate my kindergarten teacher because she combed my curls with her fingers every morning when she got to class. I got very good at hiding behind other kids as we walked through the door, in an attempt to avoid their piercing eyes.

As a teenager, my curly hair was the bane of my existence. I desperately wanted straight, long, silky hair like my friends. They wore shoulder-length tresses that seemed to float in the wind, silky locks of (mostly) blonde beauty that I coveted with all my being. Or they tied their hair up in soft ponytails that bounced gracefully with every step they took.

My hair was a mess of thick curls, each loop doing what it wanted to do: bounce in a direction I had no control over. At one point, I pulled it back into a ponytail, pulling it back as straight as I could, holding my breath and gritting my teeth against the pain as I pulled the strands back as hard as I could. I wanted bangs like my friends’, so I would smooth globs of hair product into my bangs, tape them to my forehead, and blow-dry them in place. When I removed the tape, the bangs stayed where they were, thick dark brown spaghetti strands plastered to my forehead.

But alas! In an hour the first hairs would begin to escape from the ponytail, falling in curly spirals onto my cheeks. By midmorning, more curls would join them, some choosing to head up, down, or the other way. Around the time I sat down to lunch, the glue on my bangs gave way and bounced up to join the rest of my curly hair. When I finally cut my ponytail and went back to my curly bob, my friends breathed a sigh of relief and told me I looked so much better.

As a young adult, I not only came to terms with my curly hair, but learned to enjoy it for the ease of care it provided. I kept it short and called it “wash and wear” hair. I even began to enjoy the compliments I was getting from other women for my easy-care hair. Then I gave birth to a girl who was born with red curls. When the nurse brought her to me, she had a blue ribbon tied around some of her top curls and she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl in the nursery. I forgot about my early fight with my curls and was unprepared when she hit her teens and began the same ordeal I had endured.

Like me, she fought her curls and put even more effort than I did in trying to tame her hair and force it into her classmates’ long, straight hairstyles. And like me, she was a young adult before she realized how beautiful her auburn locks were and began allowing the curls to cascade over her shoulders in a natural way that, to this day, elicits words of admiration of friends, family and strangers. .

And now he has a daughter, our granddaughter, who turned eight last week. And yes, she has curly hair and yes, she hates it. However, our granddaughter (“S”) is part African American, so her curls are tighter than her mother’s and grandmother’s and her hair has a different texture. She tangles very easily and is difficult to comb. And, you guessed it, she desperately wants long, soft shoulder-length hair from her!

My daughter has taken “S” to the salon several times in an attempt to get her hair styled, but the experience has ended with “S” crying and her hair still tangled. Finally, my daughter took her to a salon that specializes in styling African-American women’s hair, and for her birthday, she had an appointment at the salon. And I was invited.

First, the stylist had to undo the knots. This was a long and arduous process that involved taking a small strand of hair one at a time, spraying it with water and lotion, and carefully untangling it. It took an hour and there were times when we wondered if he would be able to finish, but in the end, he proved to be a troupe, sitting back in the chair with a look of determination on her face. The stylist then applied a conditioner to her hair and had her sit under the dryer for thirty minutes. The next step was a shampoo. Finally, the stylist blow-dried her hair and then used a hot iron to straighten it, one small section at a time. At that point, we had been in the store for three hours!

But the result was amazing. “S” slipped out of the chair and looked at himself in the mirror. He had straight, silky hair that reached almost to his shoulders. When he twisted his head, her hair swayed with her. It was the hair that she and her mother and her grandmother had always dreamed of having. I couldn’t stop looking at her new hairstyle in her mirror and I didn’t blame her. “Who are you and what have you done with my granddaughter?” I asked.

Of course it won’t last. The first bath, the first shampoo and the curls will return. She will be disappointed and will eventually have to decide if she can accept the curls or if she will learn to use the hot iron and she will be willing to spend time keeping her hair straight. However, I think she’s beautiful no matter how she wears her hair. But I also know that she has to figure this out on her own.

One great thing I learned during my afternoon at the salon was how many hours African-American women have to spend to get their hair straight. I watched several other women who were in the store with us (and were still there when we left) go through processes like my granddaughter getting her hair straightened. And I realize that they will repeat the process again in two weeks or a month. I have a new appreciation when I see African American women with straight hair and wonder what I would do if my hair was so curly. I also wonder about women, all of us, and our battles with our hair! And for that, I have no answers. I just know that I love my daughter and my granddaughter and no hairstyle can change that!