Long, youthful 

My hair used to be thick with ringlet curls falling down to just below my waist. My mother would sit me between her legs to keep from wriggling free as she brushed out tangle after tangle before bed. At school, I would flip my hair upside down and tie it up in a high ponytail like the other girls, but it was always too loose and heavy with the weight of the waves. I never minded though, because the other girls loved my hair and would braid it in the playground and search for pretty flowers to tuck into it. I would let my hair out on hot summer days and run as fast as I could so that my hair would fly out behind me free of restraint, just how I felt and hoped I would always be. 

Short, lifeless 

Too wild to tame, my mother cut my hair so that it barely reached my shoulders. I was now plain and average and now, straight hair was better; everybody wanted to have straight doll-like hair with maybe a small wave or two at the end. I would straighten it every day hoping to replicate that beautiful smoothness my rough curls couldn’t attain. Shampoo adverts would cause a rapid pulse in my chest, my hair would never grow again, length of hair equals beauty, curly was ugly and I could never keep up the maintenance I would require to be like them. Those beautiful girls with Rapunzel hair straight and flowing like a downstream river, against my messy jungle-hair.  I would feel that I was betrayed by my mother on account of her caring that I looked “presentable” over looking more like myself. Funny how something so mundane as hair could shape my life this way. 

Colours, broken 

Once my hair had grown long again, I no longer had my thick curls. The straightening had burned away what little soul it had away, and I had begun to bleach the fullness and life out of it. My bleached loose waves served as a convenient base for my next obsession – colours. To distract from my own loss of identity, I would change the colour once a month until I exhausted every colour and combination of dip-dye, spotlights and highlights I could think of. Red made me feel dangerous, Blue made me feel cool, Green made me feel different, and Pink attracted too much attention for my liking. Visiting Red once more and never dyeing my poor tired hair again to leave the faded evidence of my youthful desire to be noticed. 

Natural, freedom 

Hair untouched by dyes or scissors. The freedom of adulthood. Unburdened by the care of society on whether my locks are worthy. Caring for my hair and in turn caring for myself. The care I take in enjoying things, like the freedom. Enjoying the freedom. Celebrating natural individuality in others and learning to see it in myself. Putting up with my mother’s disapproving looks once a week. Remembering how uncle Samir gave in to those same looks and promising to never fall victim to cultural judgement. Learning that my family’s ideas of professional compared to the rest of the world’s is not the same thing. Did I mention the freedom? Free from prying eyes and suggestions. Making my simple choices on my own; All on one side, or parted down the middle? Choice to trim or to cut, to colour or to not. Embracing the concept of choice and feeling grateful for the taste.