Tangled

As the sun beamed through the kitchen window, I sat at the dining room table, dreading the inevitable battle with my hair. Today was not just another day, but it was the day my mother would confront the mat in my hair. She lined up her arsenal of products on the table: combs, brushes, spray bottles of water, leave-in conditioners, detangling sprays, oils, scissors. My head snapped backward as my mother yanked the brush through my tangled hair. As the ceiling panned into frame, I closed my eyes tight with a clenched jaw and my teeth bared. Each pull would cause the plastic brush bristles to crunch as they got stuck in the knots. “Ow, that hurts!” I’d say to her as she kept going. The cold spritzes of water caressed my neck, making all the little hairs stand up. As she kept drenching my hair, beads of water came down my forehead as if it were raining. The leave-in conditioner and water mixture helped, but it wasn’t enough. Three hours had passed when she concluded that, “We’re going to have to cut it out.” With my eyes tightly sealed, I heard the crisp snip of the blades cutting through my matted hair. After that, I told myself I would never want this to happen again.  

When I was younger, I always received comments on my curls. They were large coils that bounced out of my head, tempting people to wrap their fingers around them. As I grew, the curls thickened and lengthened, becoming unruly with each year. It wasn’t as simple as combing it with a few drops of water or even running my hands through it. My hair became real work. The upkeep wasn’t something my parents were interested in. My dad was always busy working, and even if he wasn’t, he was bald and a man. He wouldn’t know what to do with my hair even if he tried. My mom had pin-straight hair, which is why she had no clue. So, every morning, I found myself wrestling the mane on my head. After a certain point of time, I just stopped caring about it. The burden of worrying about my hair was lifted off me, yet a new one weighed on my shoulders. I looked different than everyone else. My friends had slick-back braids and ponytails where you could see every hair in place, while mine looked like a brick of funky fabric from Hobby Lobby. I felt like the one loose strand in a tightly woven braid and couldn’t shake the feeling that I was out of place. Even though I tried to ignore it, my hair was a constant reminder of how insecure I was. 

After neglecting my hair for weeks, I developed a knot that took up more than 50% of my hair. I had it tied up in the same low pony and purple hair tie for weeks. I could no longer ignore the state of my hair, and it was time to deal with it. It was a long process of brushing, spraying, combing, and cutting. The size of the mat made it challenging to salvage much, and I ended up having an uneven bob. The short hair wasn’t my favorite whatsoever. All my friends and the women I looked up to had long hair. I felt like I had lost a part of myself, as if my identity was tied to my hair length. I was being noticed for the flaws I wanted to hide, no longer fitting into the image I admired.  

For the next two years, I would wash and brush my hair every day, but that was it. I wasn’t giving it all the attention it needed, so my hair was clean and brushed, yet it was a frizzy mess. I resorted to a hair tie to calm the puffiness, but the brushed-out curls in my hair created waves that made me look like a founding father. Or better yet, Lord Farquaad. I hated how my friends would jokingly compare me to such ridiculous things. In the moment, I would laugh and try to brush it off. Yet when I went home, I’d sit there trying to figure out what to do to make myself pretty. I would tug at my hair in an attempt to fix it, hoping to avoid the “playful” comments. Each joke stung more than I let on, chipping away at my confidence until I felt uncomfortable in my own skin. The more I fixated on my hair, the more I began to feel unsure about my entire appearance, and soon I found myself questioning if even my face was somehow part of the problem. Eventually, I got tired of it and resorted to a more permanent fix.  

When I got my first keratin treatment, I was ecstatic. The stylist coated each strand with a keratin solution, blow-dried it, and used a flat iron to seal in the protein. I had beautiful, straight hair that dropped into loose curls. For the first time, I felt like I fit the image of the person I wanted to be. I was confident, effortlessly put-together, and was constantly whipping my hair around as if the paparazzi were around me. After three months, the treatment faded, and my natural curls grew in. The flash of my natural hair reminded me of how far I was from society’s narrow ideals. It was as if I needed that sleek hair to feel like my best self. Again, I had the shiny, manageable hair that I wanted, but then, after another three months, I was back at square one. I would’ve continued the cycle because I felt like I had to. My confidence was hinged to it. However, once the pandemic started, I knew I couldn’t keep up with the maintenance of the treatments. 

With nowhere to go, and nobody to impress, my hair was reverting to its old untamed days. I remembered the promise I made to myself when I was younger and knew I couldn’t let that knot happen again, so I committed to the look. I embraced them, learned how to care for them, and realized they are meant to be cherished. I finally had set my hair free. My once-damaged curls now contoured my face, and with each passing day, I noticed how they enhanced my appearance. The ringlets framed my face, softening my bold features and beautifully contrasting with my oval shape. For the first time, I loved my hair, and I was eager to show it off. However, embracing my natural locks was more than just hair, but reclaiming a part of myself that I had locked away for years. I had been struggling to accept the parts of me I looked down on, and my hair helped me find peace with it all. Freeing myself from the pressure to "fix" my hair was like tearing away the expectations that had been suffocating my true self. I began to accept not just my curls, but all the parts of myself I had been taught to look down on. 

The eras of my hair have been chaotic, but the trials and tribulations throughout this journey have helped me find myself. I was lost with no guidance on how to take care of myself, nor any motivation to. As I accepted my natural hair, I found confidence existed within me. It was just tied to the false beauty standard. The more I learned about proper care and embraced my curls, the more I felt empowered. Each wash day became an act of self-love, and my self-image grew with every styling session. I began to appreciate my unique texture and how it reflected my personality. Beauty isn’t found in conformity, but in the uniqueness we each bring into the world. Seeing the women around me, I thought they were all perfect the way they were, which made me realize that I was perfect as well. Rather than hiding behind straightened strands, I celebrated the bounce and life of my curls. With that, my hair went from being an accessory to being a part of my identity. Now, each curl is a reminder that true beauty lies in the confidence we carry within ourselves.