Learning to Embrace My Naturally Curly Hair

With my lifelong friends Valerie and Kevin, my sister Melissa and my unfortunate haircut at age 6.

The first time I studied my reflection long enough to form an opinion, I decided I hated my hair. It sprang into tight curls no matter how I brushed or begged, defying me in the mirror. Everyone else seemed enchanted by it—strangers, relatives, even my teachers—but their admiration only made it worse. I didn’t want curls. I wanted hair like Sarah, my babysitter, whose long, glossy strands fell straight down her back, just like Marcia Brady.

Apparently, I inherited my curls from my dad, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He kept his hair cut short and slicked back, every hint of curl tamed into submission. For a while, I suspected my parents were lying, until I found an old photograph of him, his hair a halo of pale blond curls, and had to admit the evidence was there.

My mom once decided the solution to my unruly hair was a visit to her father, a barber. The result was less “haircut” and more cautionary tale. What remained on my head refused to lie flat or behave, a stubborn, uneven mop. My mom would drag a brush through the knots, determined to smooth it, while I winced and the curls sprang right back, as if nothing had happened.

By middle and high school, my hair had taken on a life of its own. The closest comparison I can offer is Roseanne Roseannadanna from Saturday Night Live—wild, untamed, and impossible to ignore. Unfortunately for me, the resemblance was uncanny.

It didn’t stop me from making friends or having a social life. I even went on a few dates. It was probably lucky I came of age during the big-hair era—no one seemed to think my hair was unusual, or at least no one said so. I fit right in with Bon Jovi and Metallica.

With my sister, Kevin, his sister Karen and my hair!

When you have naturally curly hair, your heroes tend to be a little unconventional. I loved that Peanuts had a character like Frieda, who proudly talked about her “naturally curly hair.” It was the only time I heard anyone describe their hair that way. Frieda seemed delighted by hers, which was a far cry from how I felt about mine.

I also looked to Andie MacDowell and wondered if I could style my hair like hers. The answer was a resounding no. I had plenty of hair, but it was fine, not thick—and it refused to cooperate.

Recently, I went to someone new at my salon who didn’t know how to cut curly hair. The result was lopsided—one side noticeably longer than the other. To fix it, I had to get a blunt cut, which meant losing several inches.

During that time, I didn’t have much choice but to wear it curly. It was interesting to watch people’s reactions at my place of work: first surprise, then—after a day or two—familiarity.

For me, though, it felt like I was wearing a wig. I looked so different, even though it was my natural hair—my actual self.

For the first time in a long while, I was simply myself—the person everyone back home would recognize. It made me think about the times I chose to wear my hair naturally, and how they coincided with the most important moments of my life: prom, my wedding, the births of my two children.

What surprised me most, though, was what I saw in the mirror. I thought of my dad—the one I resemble more than anyone—and seeing my natural hair made me miss him all the more. He’s been gone for seven years now.

I don’t know how often I’ll wear my hair this way, but I understand it differently now—and, in some small way, I understand myself differently too.