A brush yanked my head back as I struggled to not fall off the step stool. My reflection stared back at my mom’s in my parents’ bathroom mirror. My mom was attempting to straighten my stubborn curls. By that point, half of my hair was soaking wet and the other half was puffier than Simba’s mane. Despite the fight my hair put up, I didn’t question it. My mom looked at my hair with confusion. She yanked again with determination. She had to straighten it.

It was never going to be straight.

After almost an hour, my hair was no longer wet but it was frizzy and huge. As a kid, I couldn’t have cared less about what it looked like, but that all changed when I reached middle school.

After years of being told my curls were something to be tamed, I started straightening my hair every day. I was taught not to embrace my natural hair. My middle school years were full of split ends, heat damage and insecurity.

By my freshman year, I finally had enough. I wanted to embrace something that made me unique instead of straightening it into submission.

It took a while to learn how to properly manage my curls in a style I liked. Most curly haired people have at least one immediate family member that has it as well and teaches them how to care for it. But because genetics decided that I was going to be a weird one, I was born into a family of people with board straight hair. The only exception to this is my grandmother and even she did everything she could to straighten my curls.

My hair made me different, and I hated it. Ironically, that’s why I ended up loving it so much about it. I would literally ask God why he did this to me when I prayed. My family and friends would joke about my curls. Their lighthearted humor wasn’t mean, but I was extremely insecure and took it to heart. However, I did get rude comments sometimes too. A boy I liked in middle school said I looked like I had bed head the one day I wore it curly for 80’s day. I didn’t wear it curly again for months.

Once I did start wearing it curly, I finally understood why people with natural curls would get so upset about people touching it. Something that most people don’t understand is that the more you touch curls, the more they frizz. So when someone comes up to me and starts running their hands through it, without asking if it’s okay for them to do so, it messes up my ‘do. With that being said, it’s just plain rude. Even if someone thinks my hair is just so “interesting” or “weird” or, my personal favorite, “curly” they can, you know, tell me they like it instead of invading my personal space.

Since my mom has extremely straight hair, it took a while for my mom to understand how big of deal deciding to wear my curls with pride was. It wasn’t just a hairstyle, it was a protest of my own insecurity— a symbol of my newfound confidence.

Years later, I stood in front of my bathroom mirror. My hair was dripping wet from the shower. I mixed a concoction of products in my hands and ran my fingers through my hair. That was it. No pulling, no heat and no resentment.

Now, my hair is my favorite feature. I love its puffiness and unpredictability. It makes me more confident, which is something that I would’ve never thought possible just a few years ago.

I can’t remember the last time I straightened my hair. For me, making the decision to embrace my curls was a step in the right direction. A lot of people have that one thing that they just can’t let themselves accept. For some it’s their nose, for others it’s their height or oddly sized ears. For me, it was my hair. Learning to love what makes you different is the most powerful thing someone can do on the road to self-love.