Thoughts About Curly Hair.

Why the hell is textured hair such a big deal?

I was kicked out of my dear mother’s womb, two weeks later than expected, on a scorching hot day in the summer of 1991.
She couldn’t wait for me to get out and relieve her of the plight of pregnancy plus the 30 kgs she gained throughout the course of the nine months she had been slowly brewing my life and progressively manufacturing each and every piece of what would then become Naomi.

I was born with no nose bridge; a small ball marked by a line running down the middle split my nostrils and acted as the precursor of my tiny nose. My face was so chubby and round that I could barely open my almond shaped eyes.
I was also completely bald — a detail that is hard to believe given the luscious mane of coarse, curly hair I find myself having as an adult.

I was not always a brunette. Matter fact, up until elementary school my hair color was closer to blonde than black.
As a child, my gold locks often meant adults compared me to Shirley Temple — maybe also because just like the young movie star, my plump cheeks were often rosy and naturally blushed. This distinguished look inspired older relatives and family friends to affectionately nickname me Goldilocks.

My voluminous, long tresses have always been a huge part of my identity. A trademark feature framing my Sicilian roots and, in juxtaposition with my olive skin, makes me ethnically ambiguous, frequently misguiding people into thinking I am Middle Eastern, North African, South American or everything I am not.

As a kid, I let my hair grow infinitely. I wanted it to be long like Rapunzel, making washday a dreadful experience for both me and my mother.
The longer the hair, the harder it was to detangle and dry it. We spent hours in the bathroom as my mom combed through the nests that formed amongst my wooly hair and subsequently spent one hour making sure my nape was completely waterless.
I remember she would run lukewarm water in the bathtub of our upstairs toilette and she instructed me me to flip my head upside down so she could shampoo and condition my hair in the same fashion housewives used to do laundry before washing machines became a popular tool integrated of everyday use.
The tepid soapy mixture ran down my temples and neck providing an uncomfortable sensation that made me squirm, moan and beg my mom to do it faster.
My hair was so thirsty for moisture, it took five minutes just to soak it up completely — rinsing it was not a job for the faint hearted either.
In the background, the buzzing sound of a space heater filled the air with a roaring noise reminiscent of the monotonous clatter of a summer fan.

Once the cleansing process was over, it was time for detangling.
Each strand required specific precision and care; it was a three step journey.
First, my mother would create sections, then she attempted to scour through it with a wide tooth comb — which would often snap — and lastly, it was the turn of the dreaded plastic monster with a spongy core: the brush.
Its q-tip shaped teeth constantly let go of the rubber protection, turning the last stage of this endless hair routine into a grueling head-scratching torture.

To complete the procedure, I would alternate between facing downwards and sitting up as my mom hovered the hairdryer over my head for the next sixty minutes to make sure every last patch on my head was dry “in order to avoid sickness and cervical pains as an adult”.

As adamant as I was about not cutting my hair, I surely despised washday. I still do, especially in the winter when I am not able to just walk out the house carelessly after showering.

Back then, despite tremendously suffering heat in the summer, I loved my hair.
I joyously allowed my mom to give me extravagant hairdos, to braid me, pigtail me and whatever other creative inspiration she would have. The volume of my leonine crown didn’t faze me, it didn’t make me feel self-conscious. People around me would shower me in compliments and appreciate whatever bush was growing on the top of my head.

On the verge of puberty, it all suddenly changed. My beautiful voluptuous hair was not worthy of compliments anymore, it started becoming subject of ridicule and snarky comments from my class mates and adults alike. People were joking about how big it was, if I had been electrocuted and how long had I not brushed my for.

Around me, everybody had perfectly pressed straight hair; they weren’t taking up any extra space, nor attracted unwanted attention. I wanted to feel that way too and, despite always being a confident individual with a strong character, I started disliking my once beloved natural mane.
I began wearing my hair firmly tied in a low ponytail daily and eventually I cut it down.

When I go to high school, the problem continued and became even more prevalent. As the only chick with sizable hair in my class, it made me the target of some teachers too. I decided my curls were to be gone.

And so I embarked on a journey of even more stressful hair care, one made of straightening products and hot irons, tights buns and damaging techniques that lasted a decade. Straight hair just made sense. It was orthodox, conservative and when I looked in the mirror I felt prettier.
On the other hand, my naturally thick curls were inconvenient, messy, uncool. I often cried hysterically in front of the mirror trying to tame it before going out on the weekends.
In winter, it was a tragedy; the hard work I put in to destroy my hair with excessive heat would be gone within minutes of walking out the door, forcing me to rely on the elastic band that constantly cinched my left wrist.

My condition was worsened by the fact that I was an athlete with an intense weekly training session that cared little to none about my beauty tantrums.
The pearly sweat dripping from my forehead was the deadly enemy of my carefully laid roots, the gym’s shower steam their absolute nemesis.

For this, I begged my mom to allow me to get a permanent Keratin treatment multiple times. Thankfully, aided by the pricy cost of the operation, she never gave in.

Still, I was so against my original hair that after giving up my hoop dreams and before moving to Los Angeles for college, I went for a big chop and got rid of the full length.

It wasn’t until my mid-twenties, when I moved to a country so humid that no amount of repeated straightening would endure the harsh weather conditions, that I had to give my flat iron the boot.
After more than ten years, my curls were back and free to breathe and thrive. Essentially, I was forced to accept what I was naturally blessed with.
After some much needed soul searching, I finally let go of the twisted idea that my thick, big hair was a disservice to my existence.

As a matter of course, my new-old look raised eyebrows amongst my acquaintances and pushed questions like “did you get a perm? Is that your actual hair? Are you wearing a wig?”.
This time around, I confidently shrugged it off and laughed, answering with sarcasm.

As silly as this tale sounds, the journey of acceptance and awareness that this whole predicament came with went hand in hand with the reckoning of my Sicilian heritage, something I had been neglecting for a long time.
After all, the coarse texture of my hair is the result of the dormant Arab DNA scattered through my lineage by the two hundred and fifty years of Moor domination in Sicily which resurfaced and moulded me into this stereotypical Mediterranean specimen.
At the same time, as I questioned the reasons behind the boycott of this look, I simultaneously wondered why is textured hair such a big deal?

As I looked for an answer, I kept on bumping into some weird content such as this article published on a website called Corporette: “Is Curly Hair Professional?” or this one titled Curly Hair is Ugly, which ran though how badly curly hair is represented in media.

There are endless adages and myths associating curls with “bad” character. For example, in Italy we have this saying that goes “Un riccio per ogni capriccio” which literally translates to “a curl for every fit” hinting at how nasty curly people are.
And again, when you think of the image of Medusa, with her snake mane, do you think of her as a curly haired gal or straight haired chick?

Throughout my survey, the web turned out to be full of Reddit threads started by women with mutual dilemmas.
On this cringe website called Girlsaskguys.com, the quest for understanding why curly hair is considered unattractive attracted (full pun) baffling answers as follows:

“honestly now that you point it out. I never dated a girl with curly hair lol. but yeah I think its just more attractive. but then again its a guys preference.
there are always professional hair straighten that is around 200-$400 that last for a few months.
possible solution >.<“

It was quite hard to find good articles about textured hair that wasn’t strictly Afro-descendant. All I could find was tips for achieving the perfect beach waves or the latest curling iron to buy to look like a 1930’s porcelain doll. Bottom line, curls were only ok when artificial.

Then it clicked. Could it be that curly hair is so demonized and intrinsically rejected as a beauty standard because of its association with those ethnicities society loves to hate?

*sarcastic smirk*

---