I have curly hair.

When I was a kid, my hair was a nuisance. She tangled easily and I hated that my mom would make me stand still for what seemed like hours to get her hair done. The comb tangled and pulled at my scalp, bringing tears to my eyes and howls of protest. Worse yet, the strangers we put out on the street wanted to run their fingers through my hair. I still hate my kindergarten teacher because she would finger-comb my curls every morning when she came to class. I got really good at hiding behind other kids when we walked through the door, trying to avoid their piercing eyes.

When I was a teenager, my curly hair was the bane of my existence. I desperately wanted straight, long and silky hair like my friends. They wore shoulder-length hair that seemed to float in the wind, silky locks of (mostly) blonde beauty that I coveted with all my being. Or they pulled their hair back into soft ponytails that bounced gracefully with each step they took.

My hair was a mess of thick curls, each loop doing what it wanted to do: bounce in a direction I had no control over. At one point, I pulled myself into a ponytail, pulling it back as straight as I could, holding my breath and gritting my teeth against the pain as I pulled the strands back as hard as I could. I wanted bangs like my friends’, so I would smooth globs of hair product onto my bangs, tape them to my forehead, and blow-dry them into place. When I removed the tape, the bangs stayed where they were, thick strands of dark brown spaghetti stuck to my forehead.

But alas! Within an hour the first strands of hair would begin to escape from the ponytail, falling in curly whorls over my cheeks. By mid-morning, more curls would join them, some choosing to head up, down, or the other way. Around the time I sat down to lunch, the glue on my bangs would give way and bounce up to join the rest of my curly hair. When I finally cut my ponytail and got my curly bob back, my friends sighed with relief and told me I looked so much better.

As a young adult, I not only came to terms with my curly hair, but I learned to enjoy it for the ease of care it gave me. I kept it short and called it “wash and wear” hair. I even started enjoying the compliments I was getting from other women for my easy-care hair. Then I gave birth to a girl who was born with red curls. When the nurse brought her to me, she had a blue ribbon tied around some of her upper curls and she was, without a doubt, the most beautiful girl in the nursery. I forgot about my early fight with my curls and was unprepared when she reached her teens and began the same odyssey that I had endured.

Like me, she struggled with her curls and put even more effort into trying to tame her hair and force it into her classmates’ long, straight hairstyles. And like me, she was a young adult before she realized how gorgeous her reddish-blonde curls were and began allowing the curls to cascade over her shoulders in a natural way that, to this day, elicits words of praise. admiration from friends, family and strangers. .

And now she has a daughter, our granddaughter, who turned eight last week. And yes, she has curly hair and yes, she hates it. However, our granddaughter (“S”) is part African-American, so her curls are tighter than her mother’s and her grandmother’s and her hair has a different texture. She tangles very easily and is difficult to comb. And, you guessed it, she desperately wants long, soft, shoulder-length hair from her!

My daughter has taken “S” to the beauty salon several times in an attempt to get her hair done, but the experience has ended with “S” crying and her hair still tangled. Finally, my daughter took her to a beauty salon that specializes in styling African-American women’s hair, and for her birthday, she had an appointment at the salon. And I was invited.

First, the stylist had to undo the knots. This was a long and arduous process that involved taking a small strand of hair one at a time, spraying it with water and lotion, and carefully detangling. It took an hour and there were moments where we wondered if he would be able to finish, but in the end, he proved to be a troupe, sitting in the chair with a look of determination on her face. The stylist then conditioned her hair and had her sit under the dryer for thirty minutes. The next step was a shampoo. Finally, the stylist blow-dried her hair, then used a hot iron to straighten it, one small strand at a time. At that point, we had been in the store for three hours!

But the result was amazing. “S” slid off the chair and looked at himself in the mirror. He had silky straight hair that fell almost to his shoulders. When he turned his head, her hair swayed with it. It was the hair that she and her mother and her grandmother had always dreamed of having. I couldn’t stop looking at her new hairstyle in her mirror and I didn’t blame her. “Who are you and what have you done with my granddaughter?” I asked.

Of course it won’t last. The first bath, the first shampoo and the curls will return. She will be disappointed and will eventually have to decide if she can accept the curls or if she will learn how to use the hot iron and she will be willing to spend time keeping her hair straight. However, I think she’s beautiful no matter how she wears her hair. But I also know that she has to figure this out on her own.

One big thing I learned during my afternoon at the salon was how many hours African-American women have to spend to keep their hair straight. I watched several other women who were in the store with us (and were still there when we left) go through processes like my granddaughter to get her hair straightened. And I realize that they will repeat the process again in two weeks or a month. I have a new appreciation when I see African American women with straight hair and wonder what I would do if my hair was that curly. I also wonder about women, all of us, and our battles with our hair! And for that, I have no answers. I just know that I love my daughter and my granddaughter and no amount of hair can change that!