Growing Up Curly: My Journey to Embracing My Hair

I still remember the first time I realized my hair was different. I was sitting with my sibling and grandmother watching the movie Annie. My grandmother looked at me, smiled, and said, "You know, you and Annie could be twins. Your hair is just as big and round as hers." I remember feeling a spark of recognition — my hair was different from those around me — and for a moment, it felt special.

That moment of pride didn’t last long. A few weeks later at daycare, a provider thought it would be funny to use a hand vacuum on my hair, laughing as she told the other kids I was as fluffy as a dust bunny. That was the first time I started to think my hair was dirty, wrong, or something to be laughed at. From that day forward, my curls felt less like a part of me and more like a problem to solve.

Growing up in a home where my mom, dad, and sibling all had pin-straight hair didn’t help. My mom was a hairstylist who ran her own salon out of our house, and I watched a revolving door of women come in with straight hair and leave with bouncy 90’s blowouts. I never saw anyone who looked like me.

When it came to my hair, my mom did her best — or what she thought was best. She would thin my hair out with a razor, hoping it would make my curls more manageable. All I remember was how painful it felt as the razor tugged and pulled through my hair. Simple hair brushing sessions would turn into full-on wrestling matches. My mom would pin me down, frustrated with how complicated my hair was, while my sibling sat calmly with a detangling spray. I internalized the message: my hair was difficult and unwanted.

By the time I was seven, I was desperate for a solution. I begged my mom for a pixie cut, hoping it would make my hair easier to manage. Instead, she gave me a mullet — definitely not the solution I was hoping for. My self-consciousness grew, and I began to feel like my hair was something I needed to hide.

Then came mandatory school swim lessons. One day after getting my hair wet in the pool, I had no brush, no product, and no way to tame my curls. On the bus ride home, kids called me a cotton ball. I pleaded with my mom to let me skip swim lessons just to avoid the embarrassment of my hair being seen in its natural state.

By age nine, the early 2000s beauty standards were in full swing. Lindsay Lohan's sleek, straight hair and the Olsen twins' face-framing highlights were the epitome of cool. I wanted that too. My mom tried to recreate these styles on me, but my curls refused to cooperate. My bangs were cut to my hairline, and instead of chic, I looked like an 80's receptionist.

Desperate to blend in, I even attempted to give myself box braids at nine years old, hoping it would weigh my hair down. Spoiler: it did not.

Everything changed at my first sleepover in sixth grade when my friend introduced me to a flat iron. She cranked the heat up high and ran it through my hair section by section, steam hissing with every pass. When I looked in the mirror, I felt something I had never felt before: I looked normal. I looked like my friends, my mom, my teacher — everyone around me. I ran my fingers through my hair, admiring how long my ponytail looked. The next day, I begged my parents to buy me my own flat iron. Reluctantly, they agreed. We went to Walmart, and I picked out the infamous Wet to Straight flat iron. If you know, you know.

And so began my five-year journey of relentless flat ironing. I would wash, condition, blow-dry, and flat iron my hair three times a week. Every morning, I would touch it up. I avoided rain, pools, humidity, beaches, and sweating — all in a desperate attempt to keep my hair straight and "normal." Slowly, people forgot I even had curly hair, and I started to forget too.

By high school, my hair consumed my life. While my friends spent 15 minutes getting ready, I needed 90. I declined pool parties, refused to get caught in the rain, and avoided water fountains like the plague. I was still thinking about my hair more than anyone else I knew. My curls weren't just hair — they were a burden.

At 17, I finally snapped. I grabbed a pair of clippers and shaved my head. It wasn’t an act of rebellion — it was pure exhaustion. I was done fighting my hair. And for the first time in my life, I felt free. No flat irons. No blow dryers. No hiding. Just me.

As my hair grew back, I hoped beauty school would finally teach me how to manage my curls. But instead, the solutions were the same: blow dry and flat iron. I left beauty school still convinced my hair was unmanageable.

It wasn’t until my now-husband (then-boyfriend) saw my natural hair for the first time that everything changed. After a shower, I walked into his room with sopping wet curls, frantically assuring him I’d "fix" it. Before I could leave, he stopped me and said something I had never heard before: "I think your hair looks really pretty like that." For the first time, someone saw beauty in my curls — and eventually, I started to see it too.

I fell headfirst into the Curly Girl Method and slowly started learning how to care for my hair. It wasn't easy — I had to unlearn years of shame and mistreatment — but with every client I helped, I healed a piece of myself. I became the hairstylist I desperately needed as a child. Someone to say: Nothing is wrong with your hair. Your curls are beautiful. You are beautiful.

This journey is why I do what I do today. Every time a client sits in my chair, I remember that little girl who felt like a dust bunny, the teenager who hid from rain, and the young woman who shaved her head out of sheer exhaustion. I want every client to leave my salon feeling loved, seen, and proud of their hair — exactly as it is.

Because I know firsthand: embracing your natural hair isn't just about curls — it's about healing.