I.

I am three years old, a bundle of joy and excitement who gets told she moves a little bit too much for my parents who also have a baby boy to take care of. My feet, in white socks with pink sparkly dots on them, lead me to the bathroom. I emerge from it with a blue hairbrush in my chubby hand.

Mom sits on the brown couch, the weight of something I don’t understand making her shoulders sink. But she smiles and asks me what I want as if she hadn’t guessed it already. I fidget with my hands and ask to do her hair in a timid whisper.

“Of course,” she says, “You’re so good at it.” I giggle, climb on the couch and my hands reach for a strand. It caresses my fingertips.

My hair isn’t like Mom’s; mine grows out of my head in small curls, the pattern not yet defined. It’s still short, like a little black cloud. But I don’t care about that.

I take my job seriously. I separate Mom’s smooth hair into two parts and try to twirl them around. The result isn’t a braid, and I frown. I thought braiding would be easy, that I would just know how to do it, but maybe I need to ask Mom to teach me. As if she senses that her appointment is over, she turns around and thanks me with a soft kiss on my forehead, her straight hair not so straight anymore. 

II.

The white fluorescents of the supermarket light us as we wait in line. My baby sister is in the seat of the shopping cart and Mom’s hand is set protectively on the side of it. My brother is holding onto the opposite side of the metallic cart. I’m holding the cold plastic handlebar, feeling responsibility at the ripe old age of six years old. I lean forward with a finger on my lips, a mischievous look in my eyes. My sister looks at me, waiting for her next challenge.

Mom braids my sister’s hair and my hair every week or so. She washes it, then she places us down on the floor between her legs while she sits on the couch. She parts it all in small sections and braids one braid at a time. When she finishes a braid, she doesn’t need to put a hair tie on it. The end of my coils spirals and stays in place. “It’s magic,” I tell my friends at school. 

And so, in the middle of the supermarket, I harness my magic power and I shake my head from left to right, my enchanted braids flying around my head. My sister follows my lead, her shorter braided hair moving in sync with mine. Our giggles rise and surround us in a whimsical world of our own until Mom sees us and gives us this look that only moms know how to give. We stop, but the smiles are still on our faces.

III.

The holiday village we’re spending the week at has everything: a swimming pool, bikes to rent, and a super fun playground. My parents take my siblings and me to the main area to find activities for kids. I’m eight years old, and I like to read everything that falls under my gaze. When I see the words “fashion club,” I catch my breath and look at Dad with pleading eyes. He tells me I can participate if I want to. “There’s even a runway show at the end,” he says. I smile from ear to ear, and I can’t stay in place while Dad writes down my name.

I strut down the hall, my hand clasped tightly around Mom’s, and when I enter the room, I let go without any hesitation. The room is filled with other girls with the same big little-girl eyes and the same big little-girl dreams as me. We need to choose accessories and I pick a pink boa because its feathers match my cotton candy turtleneck. When it’s almost time for the show, I can’t hide the joy on my face. There are only two steps left, hair and makeup, just like the pros. I get in line to get my hair done, but when my turn comes, the lady turns me away. I stare at her, a crease forming between my eyebrows. I don’t understand.

She points at my braids, shaking her head, “I can’t do anything with that.”

I nod, bite my lip, and my vision starts to blur. With heavy steps and a heavy heart, I walk to the makeup stand. The lady who’s in charge of makeup puts some pink on my lips.

“Can you smile for me?” she asks, and I do.

As I leave the stand, I finally look around, really look around, and I realize I’m the only Black girl here. The only one who’s waiting, too, because everyone else is busy getting a fun hairstyle to go along with the sparkly eyeshadow that adorns their eyelids. I look at the floor, and my smile falls. I don’t want to be here anymore.

IV.

I’m in the movie theater hall, waiting to see the Princess and the Frog, and I can’t contain my excitement. I’m nine years old, and finally, the first Black Disney princess is here. After we get our tickets checked, I skip all the way to the popcorn stand. “I can’t wait,” I tell my sister, “She looks so cool!”

In the dark room of the theater, the bright projection in front of me, I open my eyes wide. On this big screen, there’s someone who’s called a princess, despite the fact that she looks like me. I take in this new feeling, wiggling my feet back and forth on the chair.

I am in the toy store a week later, and I am on a mission to find the Tiana doll. I focus on each shelf of the aisle, passing princess after princess. Ariel, Cinderella, Belle… There she is. Tiana’s green and yellow water lily dress catches my eye instantly. Her skin is a bit darker than mine, and it shines under the fluorescent light. She’s so pretty. I can be pretty too, I think. But then I look at her hair, and tilt my head with confusion. Her hair is styled in a bun, but it’s smooth. It looks nothing like the hair she has in the movie, and it looks nothing like mine. My hair is styled in twenty—maybe more—braids that reach my shoulders. It’s not straight, or wavy, or silky. It’s coily, and it’s thick, and it’s big. And I’m starting to think that not everyone sees the magic of my curls. If even princesses have to change their hair, what does this mean for me?

V.

I’m ten years old, and I’ve twirled for two years. Today is our baton-twirling end-of-the-year show, and I have decided that it will be my last. I need to do something new, even though I like watching the metal rod flying and spinning in the air. It’s cold when I catch it, and the impact hurts a bit, but that’s why we put an overgrip on it, just like the one tennis players put on their rackets. Going to the tennis aisle of the sports store to buy the overgrip makes me feel like an athlete. It’s a simple way to fix a simple problem. Today, as I walk into the gymnasium, I am proud to be performing with three of my peers. I meet with the other girls, and our instructor tells us we'll get matching hairstyles. Souvenirs from a fashion show come flooding into my head, and I feel something round like a bubble form in my throat, but I ignore it.

I sit down on the cool floor as one of the teenagers, whom I secretly admire for her twirling skills and effortless coolness, undoes my five braids. She battles with my hair for a while, and she says to the other older girls, “This is the kind of hair that always tangles itself even when you detangle it.” I laugh along, and the bubble reappears for a moment.

When she’s done, I run to the mirror to see two braids tucked into buns on my head. I raise my hand and hesitantly touch my new hairstyle, my breath stopping for a moment. I turn to the other girls who are dancing with me today, they have the same little buns on their heads. I breathe out. I think I like this feeling.

We dance to a song I’ve heard a lot on the radio, and my parents are in the audience. When it’s my time, I roll my baton on my thumb and give it a push upward. It flies and twirls in the air as I lift my left leg to form a Y with my body. I catch the baton and keep on dancing until the end of the song. I feel the lights on me and I feel proud. For once, I feel like I fit in.

When we come back from the show and Mom talks about doing my hair, I tell her no. “I want to keep it,” I say, my hand protectively hovering over my head. Dad laughs as he closes the door behind us, and brags about doing my hair for church when I was a baby.

“Yeah, you only did it until she grew more hair, and then it got harder,” Mom teases him.

“I could still do it,” he argues, his eyes on my head, “I could even do it now!”

I gasp, and cover my head once again, shaking my head no. Not today. Not tomorrow either, actually. I end up keeping this style for three days.

VI.

Mom has been doing my hair the same way for a couple of years. It’s practical, and I don’t mind it. She ties it in a ponytail and braids it until the curls spiral at the end. I wear it through my classes at school, church on Sundays, and gym practice twice a week. I am eleven years old, and every day after eating at the cafeteria, my friends and I sit on a bench while we wait for our next class. It’s sunny today, and my white friends are talking about their favorite hairdos: up, down, half-up half-down, braided on the side, in a bun... One of them has long smooth brown hair, and she turns to me, “Your braid looks kinda weird.” Everyone laughs, so I laugh. But I know it’s not real, and that the smile on my face doesn’t match the sour taste in my mouth.

When I come back from school my head is low, and I ask Mom if she can do my hair another way. She asks me why. “I’m a grown-up now,” I answer, “I just want to change things up.” She looks at me intently, but she doesn’t push it further.

“I can do two plaited braids, would you like that?” I nod. So she braids my hair, and I go to school with my head high the next day, with my coils in two plated braids.

But the next day, the plaits have already started to unravel. Mom remakes them, but once she’s done, she tells me we’ll have to go back to my usual ponytail braid. “I just don’t have the time to do that every day, I’m sorry,” she says, trying to tighten the plaits as much as she can. But still, this isn’t enough tension to hold everything together and the plaited braids loosen. 

I take matters into my own hands. My feet lead me to the bathroom with a determined step. With my reflection in the mirror guiding my movements, I try to brush through my hard, unruly hair. The bubble in my throat is back, small at first, but it expands with every stroke, with each of my winces. When the brush gets stuck in the curls for the hundredth time, the lump in my throat gets bigger, and the tears that were filling my eyes finally roll down my cheeks. Through the blur, I can still see my reflection. The light bounces off the silver plate of the mirror and reflects my indecisive traits.

The girls on the television screen don’t have hair like me: the ones that everyone loves and admires, the ones that get the boys. Their hair is flowy, light, perfect. I wish mine were like that. I wipe my face with my clumsy hands. My feet are slow and hesitant as I approach Mom. I take a breath and ask her if I can get it relaxed.

“No.” She says eleven is too young.

I don’t think it’s fair. “You told me the hairdresser’s daughter has hers relaxed, and she’s only ten,” I retort. Mom says it’s still very young. “But you got yours relaxed at fourteen!” I exclaim. Mom also has hair like mine, but she does what she has to do to change it.

“Yes, I was three years older than you. You’ve got time,” Mom says. She puts her hand on my shoulder and speaks softly, “You have so much time to make a decision like that. Don’t rush it.”

“I want to do it now,” I say. I have to, I don’t say.

She gives me an encouraging smile. “Just wait for a bit, okay?”

VII.

I’m twelve years old and this is my first time at a hair salon. I’m sitting down, waiting for the hairdresser. I turn to see Mom and I smile at her. She smiles back with her thumbs up. My feet are moving, and the magazines in front of me can’t calm my nerves. The hairdresser comes back, setting her hands on my shoulders.

“Are you ready?”

I take one last look at the hair that I’m leaving behind: the curls that I am now ashamed of. It’s a simple way to fix a simple problem. I take a long, shaky breath. No more mockeries. No more not fitting it. No more feeling unpretty. I nod. Good riddance.

My new hair is what I’ve been needing. The solution to a physical and social problem. I now parade in the halls, my steps fast and purposeful. My head is high and my hair flows behind me. In English class, I feel a light pull on my hair. I turn my head slightly, my eyes meeting one of my classmate’s eyes. “Your hair is so soft now,” she says, her hand still reaching out. I should feel proud, I think. But instead, I feel an uneasiness creeping up my spine.

VIII.

My little sister’s hair is made of twirls and curls that spin around their axis and create rules of their own.

“I want to relax my hair,” she tells me one day. She’s twelve years old, and she’s at that stage in life when you think you know everything.

I stare at her, her words not even making sense to me. “You shouldn’t.” I’m sixteen years old, and I like to think I know a bit more about life than I do. “Your hair is beautiful,” I whisper, my hand holding a strand. Her hair is black but looks dark brown when the sun rays caress it. Mine does that too, I suddenly remember.

My hair still grows out of my head in its natural form, so every three months or so I go to the salon and I sit down while the white chemical cream that inverses the physics of my hair is applied to my coily roots. It’s cold and itches, but at least it makes my hair straight.

“Don’t ruin it,” I finally tell my sister, letting go of her hair.

Yet, after I artificially alter my hair once again, I still pass my fingers through my newly fixed roots with a proud smile.

IX.

I’m seventeen years old, and I’m diving into the past, captured on the screen of my laptop. My little brother is on my left side and my little sister’s head is on my right shoulder. I notice a video of a runway at a vacation in a holiday village and I click on it.

“Did you really choose a pink boa?” My sister laughs, and my brother joins her.

I laugh too. My eyes zoom on the video, and I see my face. Little me looks sad. Her eyes are covered with shiny eyeshadow, but they’re looking at the floor and the corners of her mouth are slightly pulled downward.

My sister’s hair has grown. She learned how to take care of it, and rocks different styles every day. I’m jealous of her sometimes. Jealous of how she doesn’t need to sit on the chair while the white chemical cream takes the magic out of her hair every three months, of how she doesn’t need to straighten it multiple times a week for it to look okay, of how her hair isn’t damaged, broken like my confidence was all those years ago. Of how she doesn’t need to worry about whether or not she packed an umbrella when it starts to rain.

I miss the feeling of the drops of water on my head.

X.

My sister sits crossed-legged on the white comforter speckled with gray that covers my bed. I’m lying down on it, my eyes staring up at the white ceiling.

“I’m glad I didn’t relax my hair,” my sister says.

I chuckle. “Me too.” I’m eighteen years old, and I’ve been reflecting a lot on past decisions lately. I take a longer breath. “I’ve been thinking of cutting mine and going natural.” She leans in toward me, her eyes wide. She opens her mouth to talk, but I tell her that I won’t do it, not yet. Maybe one day in the future, if I feel brave enough. Maybe I could.

I get up to take a shower and leave my sister in the room. When I encounter my reflection in the bathroom mirror, I stop, and I face it. My roots are showing, which means I should probably get a relaxer soon. I raise my hand to my hair, but I hesitate. I see my hand stopped in the air, just inches from my head, and let it hover for a moment. I close the distance, my fingers brushing against my roots. Closing my eyes, I dive my fingers into my young hair, rediscovering the pattern of my curls. It’s swirling, dancing around my fingers. And it’s soft; I had forgotten that. I open my eyes and see they’re glistening, just like the silver in the mirror. I run back to my sister, and she looks at me with an eyebrow raised. “I’m gonna do it,” I say.

A week later, I’m sitting on a chair at the salon, and the hairdresser holds scissors in her hand. “Are you ready?”

I take one last look at the hair I’m leaving behind. The hair that is not mine. I nod.

I look at myself in the mirror. My hair is really short, it stands an inch or so high all around my head, in tiny curls. I feel a bit naked with all the weight I’ve lost, but it also feels right.

Later that day, I’m sitting on the floor, my back against the couch. Mom is on the couch, next to me, and she looks at me, a tender smile on her lips. I ask her if she thinks it fits me. She reaches for my hair, softly touching the short curls.

“It’s just like when you were a baby,” she says, and I picture sitting down on the floor for an hour each week, the feeling of her cool fingers on my scalp.

Mom places a kiss on my forehead. “Maybe I should do it too.”

I smile, “Maybe you should.”