Throughout my life, I have had long, waist-length hair. On Sundays, my mom washed them and then diligently oiled them into two braids. Studying in a strict Catholic school meant following a rigorous routine of tying them in neat braids every morning, nothing else. So, I grew up with that mindset; I had wavy, unruly, dry hair that needed to be oiled and tamed into two braids. Easy for my mother to tie them every morning at 6am. It kept me focused and least interested in trying anything other than one braid instead when I went out for social gatherings. My understanding of ‘pretty hair’ was long, straight, and silky, and mine were just long. I cannot remember how many times I was told that I would look so much prettier if I just straightened my hair regularly.
Ok, now why am I talking about hair and braids repeatedly? Since I follow my weirdness, I find answers and relations, whatever you want to call them, in these vague stories and moments of my childhood.
My mum was quite forward in her thinking yet believed in keeping strict control over her children; therefore, she allowed me a Sunday free of being tied down. But without a choice, any other day. I had a lot of freedom growing up compared to many of my peers. But there was this control my parents had over me that never really allowed me to make my own decisions. But that’s ok; it taught me how to fight for myself.
So, I combed my hair 100 times every night to make it grow longer and faster because that is all I could afford, length. I could try things as long as it was within my parents’ control to stop me anytime they wanted. Then, I became an adult and cut my hair to half its length, which caused a different kind of despair to my mother. Which she connected to losing control over me. I still mostly stayed a naive and obedient little girl until I had my own little girls to raise.
In my mid-30s, one day, I washed my hair and went out without combing them. They were literally out in the playground running after my tiny girls, feeling the early morning breeze and getting blown all over my face. I did not care to tie or comb them; I was too busy playing to pay attention. It was in that moment that my daughters looked at me and said, “Mum, you have such pretty hair. Why do you always tie them in a bun? Yes, the braid had been upgraded into a bun.
I came home and saw for myself; for the first time in my life, I looked in the mirror and saw a pretty young woman. Sorry, correction, a stunning young woman. I looked amazing, with soft curls falling unruly over my glasses, which made me laugh and look even prettier. From that day onwards, I started to embrace my curly, moody waves. As opposed to hiding behind straightening rods and blow dries for special occasions.
I now let them be whatever they decide. I accept their wavy, out-of-bed looks with a touch of leave-in conditioner or nothing at all. But definitely no more 100 comb strokes before bedtime. It isn’t the length that makes me smile, but their nonchalant yet confident swirl.
Almost every day, at least once, my girls play with the curls and admire saying, “I wish I had your curls, Mum.” But I know in my heart they are not really appreciating the curly twirls hanging from my scalp but what they represent. A mom who accepts herself as she is and does not confine herself into a box because that is what society expects or understands her as. Their mum embraces her individuality and wears her curls with pride with a touch of Ouai leave-in conditioner.
Lost a comb
Coiled in braids
My curls hid from me
Twirling my fingers in their way
With admiration and
some praise.
Underneath their shade lay my girls
Laughing out loud
Untamed and loose
Asking and wondering
Why Mum got all the curls!
Black Coffee and Grey Stories 
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