My relationship with my curls hasn’t always been a loving one.
My first encounter with my curls came at eight years old. Curiously, I had previously sported thick but fairly straight hair and enjoyed the care-free lifestyle that came with having straight hair. At eight, however, and neither fashion-forward nor particularly pioneering, I was inspired to chop off that luxurious mane in favour of a short wedge cut commonly embraced by power-suit-wearing professionals and new mothers.
This trip to the hairdresser's was one that would shape my relationship with my hair for years to come.
The main problem with that haircut was that it was about 40 years before my time. I was eight going on eighty overnight and was suddenly faced with the horrifying and daunting prospect of having curls. With each snip of those unforgiving scissors, I was suddenly awarded a puffier, thicker and curlier version of the hair that had previously caused few problems.
Let me take a moment to describe this horror show. My hair was neither a cute pixie nor a chic bob. It was a monstrosity which considered elements of both but rejected all the cute parts. Add to the spectacle the fringe that I was obliged to keep; a thick yellow curtain that curled several centimetres away from my forehead. Bereft of style or shape, it only added to the shock of excessively thick hair surrounding my face.
My relationship with my hair changed at that point, and reconciliation was a long and painful process. My younger self simply didn’t know how to look after curls, and the result was a puffy, frizzy and undefined mess.
Remember that this was before the time of TikTok or Instagram tutorials. Girls of my generation simply had to live with frizzy hair. My literary contemporaries Hermione Granger and Princess Mia Thermopolis were also seemingly denied access to proper hair care products and guidance. I guess it was an early 2000s thing.
As I grew older, my confidence in my hair decreased as my classmates found new and creative ways to tease me. I reluctantly adopted my new moniker “Afro Thunder”, a character from a video game with, of course, a huge afro. The irony was that Afro Thunder’s hair had a definition and control that I could only have dreamed of. Afro Thunder’s tight, defined and smooth curls were in a different league to the bird’s nest I sported.
And so my dysfunctional relationship with my curls continued. As a teen, I tried everything to keep it under control. I took to blasting it with the hairdryer in the morning in an attempt to straighten it. My palms were constantly occupied with smoothing the sides down, creating an ever-greasier but flatter appearance. I took an out-of-sight-out-of-mind approach to the back. My general look was that of a mad scientist from behind, accompanied from the front by two slightly greasy curtains flopping down either side of my face. Cousin It from The Addams Family would have been proud.
Then, at some point, it started to get better. I’m not sure exactly when the revelatory moment was; I think it was probably well into my 20s. By then I’d dabbled with many products and methods which had improved my hair’s health and definition immeasurably. I understood the importance of conditioning, choosing the right products, and spending time crafting my look, and when and how to brush my hair.
It was then that I realised I loved my curls.
Though they are extremely high maintenance, unpredictable and still prone to lapsing into the old ways of frizziness, I wouldn’t trade them for the world. They are truly my best feature.
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