The Trouble With Curls and Conversations

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The disgusted look on the face of the lady at the sight of my unruly hair was enough to bring back memories of all the remarks I had always been at the receiving end of due to the nature of my hair. ‘You should straighten your hair. I know a wonderful salon which does it for half the price.’, or ‘Put lemon juice, onion juice and egg yolks into your hair to get silky, smooth hair naturally,’ are just some of the unsolicited pieces of advice I have been privy to, and politely nodded in agreement with. And now sitting in front of the mirror, getting ready to chop off more than half the length of my gigantic curly hair, I could not help but contemplate whether I should just get up and run home.
The tangles in my hair were continuously getting caught in the teeth of the comb, putting me in a world of pain when the hairstylist tried to brush them out. The stylist was cursing me in her indigenous language, while also spitting out crude remarks about how I should just straighten my hair to end my misery and of those around me. Again, I smiled in agreement, tears of pain stinging my eyes. Feeling like my hair was getting ripped out of my skull was a great way for me to put my imagination to use in order to disconnect myself from this ordeal.
I started imagining what sort of witty replies I could have given to all the people whose first words to me began with, ‘You should straighten your hair.’ My train of thought gradually shifted from winning mental arguments using respectable wit to my own feelings about my hair. When I was younger, I was ashamed of it, damaging my hair and burning it using a hot iron straightener, trying my best to present it as acceptable. However, after a certain point, I realized I was not happy with this arrangement – wasting time to change myself for the approval of others. From that moment I stopped restraining my natural locks and let them grow out. My hair thrived under these new conditions, no longer party to the harsh treatment it had received all these years. Breaking free from the mold of normalcy, my hair became healthy again and I realized that it only needed one person’s acceptance all along – mine.
Wet hair was hanging in front of my face now as the stylist started working on the back portion. I could barely see through the thicket of hair, so I just closed my eyes, hoping that she does not mess it up too badly. With nothing to do but wait, my mind began to wander again. Hair makes up a big part of our identity, and to those who disagree, try imagining yourself as bald or with bangs or a mohawk or bright purple hair and see how difficult it really is. That is why accepting my hair in its natural state constituted a significant part of accepting the undisguised and raw version of myself, my existence.
The hairstylist let out loud sighs of exasperation as my hair started tangling as soon as she had brushed them out. It would have been comical if only I was not the person at the receiving end of the lady’s frustration. There was a very noticeable look of relief on her face when she finally finished with my hair. For one last time, she advised me to stop my suffering by straightening my hair. I again smiled politely and said I would soon, thanked and paid her for her services and set off towards home, smiling at the ridiculous thought of changing my identity for the satisfaction of the hairstylist. 

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