My hair has been a thing for my entire life. At the start, I didn’t have any. My parents lovingly called me cue ball until my curls finally began to come in when I was 2 years old. I could walk, talk and read(!) before I had hair. During my early years with hair, it mostly grew in the back and formed what my parents lovingly referred to as a rats nest. My mom would clip out the snarls and save them in an envelope, an integral page in my baby book of course - come out to Westchester sometime and I will gladly show them to you. Based on photos, my curls really worked for me between ages 2 and 5. As a strawberry blond I had a seriously sweet Shirley Temple vibe going.

Then something happened. I’m not sure if my straight-haired mother panicked about curly hair care or if some children’s “hair stylist” decided to take my life into her own hands, but around age 5 and a half all my hair was cut short into some unruly and horrible boys haircut. Of course I didn’t know or care then and my loving mother still maintains that it was a great haircut. Looking at the pictures now I can only forgive my mother for her ignorance, her hair was ideal and straight - what did she know?

For the rest of my childhood my hair was mostly insane looking, luckily I was more interested in collecting cicada shells and reading every book in the universe to care. Slowly but surely, however, my hair became a constant source of stress and insecurity. I can remember the first haircut that impacted my psyche in third grade. I wanted bangs like my straight haired friends so that is what i asked for, and that is what i got. I left the kids salon in Upper Montclair with weird bangs and a voluminous blow out and immediately burst into tears (for the record, i burst into tears just a few months ago after my last haircut, it’s an emotional experience for me). Anyway, as soon as i took a shower my crazy curls were back and my “bangs” a frightening halo around my forehead. I felt sad briefly, prayed for my hair to turn straight, and then finished my Calvin and Hobbes.

After weeks of begging in 6th grade my mom finally brought home Rusk (an at home relaxing treatment that was not stocked in cvs at the time and I am pretty sure the label indicated that the product was meant for “african american hair texture”). I was sure this was going to be the beginning of the rest of my life. So perched in front of the tv with a towel draped around me, my mother and I “relaxed my hair.” This meant sitting in a chair for what felt like forever (at least through Fresh Prince, Charles in Charge, and Who’s the Boss) with goop in my hair that smelled like some kind of chemical fire. The next step was washing and conditioning with their special shampoo and conditioner, both of which smelled so bad my nose burned. After that was the leave in finishing spray. As I towel dried my locks, I was sure that my newly relaxed hair would be perfect when it finally dried.

Needless to say, the only thing that changed was my hair smell, it took months before that chemical odor was finally gone. I was heartbroken. I discoverd the old pull my hair back in a tight ponytail when its wet and leave it that way trick. A really flattering hair style. I even cut all the baby hairs in the front because they were too short to be stretched back and appear straight. It was not cute. Finally in 8th grade (circa 1996) my mom took me to a grown up hair salon, with a picture of Jennifer Aniston’s latest in my hot little hand. My hair was washed, cut wet and the stylist gave me my first real blow out, straightening iron and all. When I looked in the mirror I was elated. I couldn’t stop playing with my hair which, by the way, looked just like Jennifer’s. I thought (hoped) that maybe just maybe my hair had miraculously been changed for ever. Boy was I in for a rude awakening. I got out of the shower that evening and prayed to wake up with that same, sleek and straight Rachel do. Well, suffice to say, when I woke up my hair was even curlier, frizzier and crazier than before. All the Rachelly layers were making the shape of my hair look insane. I burst into tears. That night my mom took me to CVS to purchase the first of many blow dryers I would wrestle with. Over the years, straightening irons, straightening serums, flat brushes, round brushes, a blow drier with a brush attached to it, and more would all join me in the fight against my curls. I literally became afraid of rain; moisture was my enemy. Add a little humidity and my charade was over.

I was about 20 years old when I started to resent the straightening process that I had become a slave to. It was hot and hurt my arms and took forever and the results were always inconsistent. I started noticing that straightened hair is pretty obvious, it has a different texture than actual straight hair. I started noticing bad blow outs with kinks in the back - did I have these kinks and I never knew it? I started feeling like I was living a lie. I wanted to be myself.

So I started letting my hair be curly some times. It never looked awesome at first, but it felt awesome to get out of the shower, scrunch in some mousse (yes, I admit it, there was a time in my life when I used mousse) and be on my way. Since then I have experimented with countless products and conditioners. I learned to let go of my hairbrush. I figured out how to finger comb my curls into position. I learned to NEVER SEPARATE the curls. And honestly, the zig-zag part saved my life.

And I started to like the way my curls were looking. I still straightened whenever I went out, but slowly my straightened hair felt so flat and blah. Of course, whenever I did straighten I would get gushing compliments. People can’t help it. They are conditioned to prefer straight hair.

It has been 5 years since a blow dryer or straighter has touched my hair and 2 years since I’ve used a hair brush. I shampoo once every 2 weeks and condition like hell every day. I use a dab of gel when it is wet and that it is it. My hair routine now takes less than 5 minutes.

And I honestly, at 29 years old I truly love my hair. My crazy, unpredictable, undesirable curly hair.