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.

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. 

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 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.

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. 

The day following a haircut is like walking out of a strip club after sunrise, the weight of my seemingly good decision weighing heavily on my head - or in the case of a haircut, not so heavily. I wanted a trim before leaving for a trip and my regular girl wasn't available. I broke one of my major rules and went with a newbie. Don't get my wrong, she's got skills, but we just don't have the years of curly rapport necessary to tame my mane. No matter how excited I get about a haircut, the day after is worse than any hangover. 

Before the haircut: Gee, I can't wait for my haircut! La di da di da! It will feel so wonderful to get rid of these split ends!

During the haircut: Oh my gosh, this is heaven. It's a massage for my head. And everything smells so good. And this lady is so friendly! Oh look, my split ends are going away. Yay!

Immediately following the haircut: I'm so happy I got that haircut! And it was a great idea to ask her to blow it out. I look like a movie star. It's so amazing that I can run my fingers through my hair! Getting that haircut was the best idea ever!












The morning after the haircut: What the hell have I done? Where's my hair? I miss my long split ends! I'm so sad that my hair is gone. Why won't it fall the right way? Did she not hear me when I said layers on top and thin on the bottom? No amount of product will fix this shape. There's a reason I never strip my hair with shampoo. I look like a freakin' frizzy pyramid!

One shower after the haircut: I know my hair is curly, and it's usually very forgiving, but, c'mon, isn't this a little crooked? 













Two washes after the haircut: Ok, I'm starting to look like myself again. I have to tug on my hair all day long so that I don't look like a springy chia pet church lady, but I can handle this. Another pound of leave-in conditioner and it will feel weighed down enough for me to feel normal. I'll just wear my hair in a bun for the next three months. I'm never getting another haircut again. 

Two weeks after the haircut: Blech, look at all these split ends. Maybe I should get a haircut!

Author's note: As is typical of a curly girl, I fell back in love with my haircut about an hour after writing this blog post. Mind you, that took hours of tugging and flipping and bunning and loosening, and I will wake up looking like a scarecrow, but as of this moment, I'm happy.

I've always had a fuzzy head. My hair was pretty much the way it is in the below pictures until I was 12, at which point I begged my mother to let me grow it out so that people would stop thinking I was a boy. Don't get me wrong, I was a super cute kid, but my parents just didn't know what to do with my hair. My mom is Norwegian with beautiful, jet black, stick straight hair. My dad is African American and Native American with very thick hair that he mostly kept short while I was growing up, except for the occasional moderate afro phase. So my biracial hair getting some length was, well, an experiment. I will always be thankful to my parents for giving me blue eyes and skin that turns a beautiful shade of brown in the summer. But dang, the hair was a hassle.  

As a teenager, there were plenty of ways for me to feel awkward, my hair included. I lived in a small town in Pennsylvania where there wasn't a lot of racial diversity, so most of my friends had long, flowing European locks while I struggled for my hair to grow past my shoulders and not resemble a brillo pad. I dreaded the elementary school days when the nurse checked us for lice. I used to walk out of her office looking like an electrocuted Diana Ross. In eighth grade, I had to cut multiple huge knots from the crown of my head. I remember thinking my vacations and cars would be determined by my hair - no way could camping or convertibles ever be part of my life with my unruly mop top. Until I was in college I almost exclusively wore my hair in buns and ponytails, and even after figuring out how to tame it enough to wear it down, it was always parted in the middle, boring, and unflattering. I don't think I always looked terrible or anything, and everybody loved the curls, but I had a hard time really owning my hair. 

Things definitely started looking better when I just gave up on the idea that my hair is supposed to look a certain way. I remember feeling that my life changed when I started parting my hair to the side. I always thought that because I have curly hair, I couldn't pull of bangs. Poppycock! I had a moment of inspiration one summer day and just chopped some teeny, tiny bangs. You know what happened? I looked awesome! Then another summer night I had a friend buzz some stripes in the side of my head. You know how that looked? Freaking rad! As it turns out, hair is no different than any other form of fashion or beauty. The greatest accessory is confidence, and when I started doing things to my hair that I liked, I started liking my hair, and myself underneath it, a little bit more. 

Truth be told, I still have bad hair days, but they're not nearly as frequent as the good ones. I've realized that the key ingredients to having a nice head of hair are getting regular cuts with someone worth your money, using the best concoction of products you can find, and having a non-defeatist attitude. It took many years to find my hairdresser soul mate, but my friend Emma works wonders at her salon called Fresh where she makes her own line of organic products and introduced me to John Masters Organics, my personal fave. Even if months go by in between trims, having a good haircut means that it will continue to grow well. Curly girls, layers are your friend! Leave-in conditioner, gel, sea salt spray, I use whatever I need to give my hair the look I want. I've found that skimping on products is never a good idea, and it usually pays off to explore. Anti-frizz stuff usually doesn't work for me, but I've become a lot more accepting of frizz because there's usually something pretty good going on to balance it out. I also think that being realistic is kind of important. I could do whatever I want to my hair with a flat iron and round brush, but I don't have those tools, and frankly, I'm too darn lazy to get that involved. Most importantly, I've come to just embrace my many looks.: the washed today, shiny, perfectly curly look; the rolled out of bed, kinda curly, kinda wavy look; the bobby pinned to straighten my bangs look; the up look; the down look; the sophisticated side ponytail look; all of them are neat because all of them are me and my hair is part of what makes me righteous. 

If, like me, you've had a lifelong tumultuous relationship with your hair, just wake up tomorrow and decide that you're gonna like the way it looks. Start a love affair with your hair. Get passionate about how much it makes you angry and how thankful you are that you have it. Take good care of it, flip it, play with it, change it, adore it. Let your hair evolve as much as the rest of you.

Then wash, rinse, repeat.