​I grew up hating my hair.  It was big.  It was frizzy.  It was Different, at a point where I wanted to be The Same.  The feeling intensified at secondary school… Oh,  how I wanted that swishable, flickable, glossy straight hair I saw all around me.  Messy buns and fringes were beyond me.  The things I wanted were not things I could have.
Things have changed since then.  I have to admit that one factor in the change is that, bar its early morning wildness, my hair is no longer frizzy.  It falls in curls.  But these days I see beauty in frizz, in the big and diverse hair I see all around me. I learned the beauty in all the Different people around me and, in doing so, tried to reflect on the beauty in myself.  I don’t often feel beautiful but I no longer blame that on my hair or skin.

Oddly, one of the things that contributed to this new ease with my appearance was living for a while in a place where nearly no one had Different hair.  It meant that my hair was beyond comparison, so I no longer needed to compare myself.  I learned, in fits and starts, to embrace what made me unusual.  Different suddenly became a compliment because it was said with interest.  Hair tourism.

And now I rarely tie my hair back.  I wear it proud.  I like the fact it has a mind of its own and pens and things get lost in it.  At the very least, it is a talking point.

I am happy with what I have because it is mine.


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