Why I Don’t Straighten My Hair

When I was a kid, I had considerably long hair– my mom had always kept my hair short throughout the earlier years of grade school, and despite wishing my hair was long like some of the other girls my age with long hair or women whose hair I found pretty, the excitement of a new haircut won over. That changed when I was 8 or 9 years old– this time, I would ensure that my hair grew waist long like I’ve been dreaming of for a long time. 

I was also 8 years old when I first had my hair straightened.

It was just for fun– but it would turn into a regular occurrence throughout my childhood, and into my mid teens. As a kid, I would especially want to straighten my hair for dawaats, or invitations from family friends, family parties, school events and other special occasions. I started considering my straight hair “good” and my unstraightened hair “bad”-- or, at the very least, less desirable than my straightened hair. 

By the time I was in middle school, I started considering my natural hair ugly. I had many self esteem issues at that time; in sixth grade, there was a point where I struggled to even look at my face in the mirror, conjuring up a fantasy image of looking differently to convince myself I didn’t look as bad as I did to help me cope. I had acne, and struggled to make friends which didn’t help my case. I loved when I straightened my hair, feeling a lot prettier. I straightened my hair on and off throughout seventh grade, where I struggled with even more things regarding my self worth and loneliness, and then made a point it to straighten my hair every day in 8th grade where I still struggled with my worth, but nonetheless felt a lot prettier. Even though I still didn’t have close friends, I still felt an elevation in social status having surface level friendships with a few girls who were considered somewhat popular. 

In ninth grade, I started off straightening my hair everyday. In eight grade, I had found myself wanting to not wear makeup often, especially because I wanted to promote natural beauty. I am still very similar in that mindset today, although I appreciate art as a medium of creativity and art, people’s natural faces being a beautiful canvas in and of itself. Like the naked body, our faces are enough, and when we put things on them– clothes or makeup respectively– it doesn’t always have to be a means of hiding our natural features as much as it can be a means of working with them to create a certain look.

My hair was a lot thicker back then, and much easier to grow longer. I started experiencing hair loss in 6th grade, but my hair was still considerably thick. But as the years went on, my hair thinned more and more– it came to a point where I became insecure about it. Combined with the insecurity I had with the actual shape of my hair, this didn’t help my self esteem issues. 

We had also moved to Virginia from Massachusetts at the start of my high school year. When we were visiting family friends in Massachusetts during Winter Break, I awoke one morning to see my curly hair clearly in the mirror. I was a little taken aback, thinking how my natural hair actually looked beautiful. At the same time, I wondered if it was too good to be true. Didn’t my hair, whenever it was not straightened, look bad by default? Even if I had previously thought that a certain look or style looked fine on me, the voice of my mother’s insecurities interrupted my confidence. When I stepped into the main room of the family friend’s house I was staying at, Supriya Aunty greeted me, and promptly expressed how beautiful my hair had looked. That validation took me back a bit– so it wasn’t just me who found this beautiful. 

That day in Winter of 2012 started my journey of loving my curly-wavy, but mostly curly, hair. 

I didn’t cease to straighten my hair altogether, at least not at first. I didn’t actually know how to work with my hair either, so on the days I didn’t straighten it, it still often ended up in that shapeless clump I was all too familiar with. 

But by the time I hit the summer before eleventh grade, it had gotten to a point where I had refused to straighten my hair altogether. By now, I had figured out how to take my curls out of hiding– the trick was to brush my hair while still wet or not at all. Maybe part of it was that piece of maintenance, and the other part was allowing my hair to change its shape as part of my physical development at this point in my youth. Or overall, maybe I was too busy criticizing my looks and everything wrong with me– even making problems out of things that weren’t problems– perceiving beautiful parts of me with a scrutinizing lens as ugly– that I had never noticed the beauty that was here in the first place. If my hair was a shapeless clump as I remember, maybe it wasn’t as horrible as that memory, especially had I taken the time to get to know it and take care of it instead of being focused on hiding it and altering it. 

In that summer of eleventh grade, I had grown my hair quite long. It was beautiful, the weight of my curls causing the tops of my hair near my scalp to straight a bit, while the rest of it descended into wavy, coily shapes. Sure, my hair was still not as thick as it was prior to the hair loss I had in middle school, but not only did I accept my natural hair, but I loved it. I never wanted to antagonize this natural, beautiful part of me again. I never wanted to feel like it needed fixing, as if I wasn't good enough as I was naturally designed to be. 

That was back when I was 16, going on 17 years old. I had several other issues to deal with regarding my self esteem and self acceptance. Eleventh grade was the year that I would cause cracks in the goody-two shoes, submissive image that my parents had of me where I expressed that maybe I didn’t want to be a doctor like they had expected me to. That I wasn’t a perfect straight A, ivy-league bound student that they had envisioned (though I had stopped getting straight A’s long before in my high school period). I started running in my freshman year of high school, but this year was also the year I fell in love with it very deeply– and also to a point where I became obsessive about it in ways that were both beneficial and detrimental. I will have to write another essay for my running addiction another time. But running kept me grounded, giving me a sense of control and self acceptance that I lacked in other areas of my life. 

Overall, I had many reasons to dislike myself. I was laden with rejection from my parents, who up until now I had felt a deep sense of guilt-driven loyalty to please and obey. I was finally challenging the worldviews and Blueprints they had given me. I still struggled with my body and body image, as well as with my physical appearance overall; I was at a point where I had finally started to love my body, facial features and hair in extents that I had never before, and there was a deep sense of external validation that I got highly dependent on to make up for the internal validation that I lacked.

But accepting something out of my control– my curly hair, something that was natural to me– was a step in me respecting myself. Not just loving myself, but also liking myself. Validating that the true me, as extension of the natural me, albeit based on physical features and potentially superficial bases, was enough. But going even deeper, this was about more than superficiality. This was about acknowledging that the things out of my control that attributed to me and went against conventional beauty standards, was still enough.

I didn’t need to adhere to convention in order to be acceptable and beautiful. I didn’t need to reject the physical parts of myself and the ways I felt most authentic in expressing myself through them to be enough, to be worthy of taking up space. 

I didn’t need to rely on conventional beauty standards, especially where they were significantly shaped by white supremacist perceptions of beauty, to give me permission to feel beautiful in my own skin, inside and out. I got to celebrate my non-straight hair and my ethnic South Asian features even if they were deemed less than by society. I got to view makeup as something that I didn’t need to make myself more beautiful; in fact, I most often feel more beautiful and a lot more confident without makeup than with it, other people’s opinions on the matter be damned. 

The last time I straightened my hair, I was around 15 or 16, and before the summer right before eleventh grade. I’m 28 years old, and i still refused to straighten my hair. 

Maybe I’ll straighten my hair one day for fun, out of curiosity of what that style will look like on me. Maybe I never will because I just love my curly hair too much.

I never want to straighten my hair from a place of feeling like I need to “fix” my curly hair, or to replace it. I know that there are many curly-haired women who love their natural hair, and also straighten their hair sometimes to don a new style. I love that for them, where self-acceptance of their natural features coexist with another style. 

For myself, especially given my history of feeling the compulsivity of straightening my hair to feel good enough, I prefer not to. I feel like I am honoring my curly hair– my natural hair– through refusing the straightener. My curly, sometimes wavy hair will always be my default.

Truth be told, I am currently deeply in love with my curly hair. It is more than just hair, and more than just a superficial marker of my physical appearance. 

It is a reflection of my personality, and my relationship with myself. My perception of beauty. My self celebration, and my celebration of others. A rebellion against those conventional beauty standards influenced heavily by white supremacy.

As I mentioned, my hair is not as thick as it used to be. But I don’t think I’ve ever loved it more. 

I would love to keep it long and voluminous like I did in eleventh and twelfth grades, and would absolutely be grateful for the volume and ease of growth I had at 9 and 10 years old. Over the past few years, even if I’ve longed for waist-length hair that is harder to grow now, I tend to keep my hair short or just a bit over shoulder length– before getting it cut soon again. 

I recently got my hair cut with dark purple highlights– which have now, over several weeks, transformed into a fiery orange/red hue. I love that my shorter hair with its curls and waviness reflects my playful personality. I love that it gives a youthful vibe, aligning with my refusal for my creative, authentic soul to be overshadowed by capitalistic demands that lead people to believe that they must lose the broadness of their personalities and limit their self expression, their humanness, in order to validate their maturity. This contrasts with my outwardly serious aura, encouraging a balance– or at least, I would like to think so. I love that my hair isn’t in seamless order, its waves and coils, some frizziness, along with the colored streaks, shows that beauty doesn’t require perfection.

I love my curly hair, and its multifacetedness and unity in its dynamicness. 

I love how my curly hair reflects me, and my story of self acceptance and self celebration. 

My relationship with my curly hair is not just a rebellion against beauty standards and external expectations– it is a direct result of my commitment to my values.