An Open Letter to My Middle School Hair

You didn’t need to be straightened, you needed to be understood

I think about you sometimes. On days when my hair is acting especially unruly; and there’s one knot I just can’t seem to detangle no matter the amount of product I use. You were always so easy to run my hands through, and if treated carefully I could simply wake up with you and be on my way to school.

But I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss your smell — always burnt and stiff feeling covered up by whatever cream I had lying around. Or the damage you left in your wake; the split ends so bad I’d pull at them while zoning out in the back of the class.

I remember in fifth grade — before I could straighten you — I’d sit in front of our couch for hours while my mom straightened you section by section. Most of the time I’d watch TV, filled with girls with hair completely different from mine. I’d watch them brush through their hair like it was silk, and feel excited as I waited for my hair to look like theirs.

When I was really lucky, I’d get to go to a salon and have them straighten my hair for me. I loved the feeling of having them wash my hair and the sight of them straighten away every curl and kink. I felt as though I was shedding my skin, as though I was turning into a butterfly right in front of everyone’s eyes.

However, on the days when there was no mom available for straightening duty and no salon appointment to go to, I’d be stuck to my own devices on what to do with you.

Which always meant a bun. And only ever a bun. I just didn’t know how to do anything else, and I didn’t care to try.

I used to dream of waking up with pin-straight hair like that of my cousins or close friends. Hair that would flow with the breeze and didn’t lead to any head pain after my mom ran a comb through it.

So middle school hair, I’m sorry, but once I knew how to straighten you there was no going back.

Every time I got a compliment about how you looked I felt empowered, this is how I’m supposed to look, I’d think. Cherishing the compliment as though my life depended on it. This was who I was meant to be, a girl with beautiful straight hair.

Then one fateful day, I got a straightening perm.

Alright, I admit, this one is definitely on me. Can you blame me? The idea of not having to straighten my hair every single day sounded like a dream.

By the time I got the perm, I no longer knew what you looked like naturally… I don’t think you did either. I could only seem to think of one thing as the stylists worked through my hair: Make me pretty.

I thought there was only one way for you and I both to exist in harmony; with a straightening iron in one hand and a comb in the other.

Having you straightened didn’t make me any prettier than having you natural, I know that now, you are just hair. But at thirteen you were everything, my everything.

I thought there was only one way for you and I both to exist in harmony; with a straightening iron in one hand and a comb in the other.

Throughout all of these trials and tribulations, my mom would often play Video by India Arie during our car rides to and from school. I’m sure the reason we listened to it so often wasn’t just because she especially liked the song; but because she hoped the message would find it’s way into my subconscious.

I always sang along, I loved India Arie. Yet I managed to completely miss the message of the song every single time. I didn’t want to be the way I was, I wanted to be what I thought was better, I wanted you to be better.

I should’ve let you be — let you breathe. I just felt so unsure and unsafe in the way you looked naturally; so instead of trying to understand you, I straightened you away.

I’m sorry.

I’m now in my twenties and not only do I like the way my hair looks, I love it. Of course, there are days when there are knots I’d rather not deal with and shrinkage I’d like to disappear. But I still like that it’s mine. It’s my hair.

I guess India Arie had it right all along,

When I look in the mirror and the only one there is me Every freckle on my face is where it’s supposed to be And I know my creator didn’t make no mistakes on me My feet, my thighs, my lips, my eyes; I’m lovin’ what I see

Today like I do every week, I washed my hair. I ran my nails across my scalp, and through every unforgiving knot; making sure to wash and rinse gently. After, I dried my hair (with a shirt obviously, no towels here) and used my favorite leave-in products. Feeling the cream and oil seep into the strands.

I am pretty I thought to myself as I looked in the mirror. My long wet black hair, pink cheeks, and smile staring back at me.

Oh, and I love my hair. I thought that too.