I’ve always been known as a bit kinky; at least since I was 16. That’s the first time I stopped wrestling against my natural instincts and discovered the truth: I was a curly girl.
Until then, I thought my hair was wavy, dry, and unruly. Although the last two are true, the former was merely a misconception I’d held about my hair for years. I’d always applied tons of hair goo, brushed it vigorously, blew it out, and beat it into as much submission as possible with a curling iron. Granted, I was a victim of the 1980s, mousse was new and exciting, and the bigger the hair, the closer to God.
Until then, I thought my hair was wavy, dry, and unruly. Although the last two are true, the former was merely a misconception I’d held about my hair for years. I’d always applied tons of hair goo, brushed it vigorously, blew it out, and beat it into as much submission as possible with a curling iron. Granted, I was a victim of the 1980s, mousse was new and exciting, and the bigger the hair, the closer to God.
It wasn’t until I let my hair dry naturally one day and, lo and behold, it was curly! Turns out my hair wasn’t trapped in that annoying it-isn’t-straight-it-isn’t-curly hair purgatory. Free from all that mousse and gel and torture with hair appliances, I had a head full of thick, bouncy, spiral curls. Of course, I wish my hair had taken the straight and narrow heavenly path, where we could live peacefully and frizz-free in a humid world; where I could brush fearlessly; where I could have at least one thing in common with all the pretty, popular girls who seemingly had such an easy go of it.
No, my tresses had chosen the dark and difficult winding path toward an abyss where the hair, not its owner, is in control. There has been much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the struggle to coexist with my crown of moody, unpredictable, and often uncooperative venomous snakes.
No, my tresses had chosen the dark and difficult winding path toward an abyss where the hair, not its owner, is in control. There has been much wailing and gnashing of teeth in the struggle to coexist with my crown of moody, unpredictable, and often uncooperative venomous snakes.
Gazing into the future...where I would someday learn to pluck my eyebrows.
I’ve had, essentially, the same hairstyle since high school. Once it finally grew out—and I do mean “out,” as it defied gravity and refused to grow down until it finally reached my shoulders—I couldn’t conceive of another appropriate style for my curls. Eventually my hair reached my butt, where it remained for a good decade or so. I cut it shorter a few times throughout the years, but it’s been long for a very long time…until three months ago.
I was bored with the same old same old and ready for a change. I’d always been intrigued by bangs, but assumed they’d look ridiculous on a curly girl. However, I’d seen two of my sisters successfully pull it off (including Kenz) so I thought what the heck! Let’s do this!
My awesome hairdresser (with whom I have the longest and most successful relationship in my life) chopped off a good eight inches and gave me bangs for the first time in my life. It took a little getting used to; I kind of felt like I was wearing a wig. But within a week, I called my hairdresser to thank her for the style and tell her how much I loved it.
I was bored with the same old same old and ready for a change. I’d always been intrigued by bangs, but assumed they’d look ridiculous on a curly girl. However, I’d seen two of my sisters successfully pull it off (including Kenz) so I thought what the heck! Let’s do this!
My awesome hairdresser (with whom I have the longest and most successful relationship in my life) chopped off a good eight inches and gave me bangs for the first time in my life. It took a little getting used to; I kind of felt like I was wearing a wig. But within a week, I called my hairdresser to thank her for the style and tell her how much I loved it.
I hate putting too much effort into my hair so I loved that all I had to do was let it air-dry (after applying the proper product, of course) and it took care of itself. After a while, however, I did wonder what it would look like if I straightened it and gave it a whirl.
It was exhausting.
I pulled out my hairdryer for the first time in years. The results were not pretty.
It was exhausting.
I pulled out my hairdryer for the first time in years. The results were not pretty.
I put the straightening iron to work. After a hot and sweaty 45 minutes, it still looked icky.
Finally, I pulled out the jumbo curling iron. After another hot and sweaty 45 minutes, the job was finally complete. After all that effort, there was no way in hell I was going to let a drop of water touch my hair for at least a week.
It was kind of a relief to wake up every morning with effortlessly pretty hair for a full ten days. I’d give it a little touch up some mornings or after I worked out, but essentially, my hair was very well-behaved.
Still, on the 11th day, I was happy to wash out days’ worth of product and see my old mane—big, wild, unruly, not unlike its owner—back where it belongs.
