➿ Curly Thoughts on Curly Hair ➿

the spiral journey of acceptance

Clicked by Tai

I did not know I had curly hair when I was born. A baby doesn’t even know she has something called hair. And when I was a toddler, I was too short for the mirror in the bedroom. Baba did not develop the photographs clicked in 1995 and Aai would hide her own curls inside a thick long plait. I did not know I had curly hair until my hair grew long and I pulled them in front of my face and saw them. And what did I see? My hair were defying gravity. Not rushing straight towards the earth, but twisting and dancing in all directions. They made me look different, and being different in a school like mine, in a city like mine, had a cost.

Nobody on TV had curly hair either, except a vamp named Komolika. Twirling her curls with a finger, Komolika plotted against the coy, sanskari, straight-haired heroine of the show. For my curly hair, I was called junglee and tribal, as if it was a bad thing. In Marathi, the word for a girl with curly or unkempt hair was ‘jhipri’ which rhymes with the word for a bitch, ‘kutri’, and so I brushed my hair aggressively, the Marathi word for which is ‘vichrun kahadne’ which reminded me of the word for scorpion, ‘vinchu’ as it left my scalp stinging with my own torture.

I wanted to yank the curliness out of my hair by brushing, oiling, and scolding them every single day. By the time I discovered the concept of getting them ironed, it was the last day of school. I got my hair ironed for the school farewell. For the first time in 15 years of school, people looked at me and held my hand in surprise, and said, “we didn’t know you were pretty”

So I decided to get them permanently straightened before going to college. As I entered the beauty parlour, I made a promise, “I will get a degree, get a job, get enough money, and I will help all the women in my family to get permanently straightened hair.” After eight hours of sitting under a foil-wrapped chemical sandwich of my hair, I saw them become straight, perfectly straight. Forget curling, the hair didn’t even slightly curve around my cheek. They directly fell down to my shoulder blades, showing their true length for the first time.

I carried this new straightened self to a bigger city to attend college. My artificially straightened straight hair needed to be washed with a particular shampoo and a particular conditioner. They looked fake, which is funny because my college friends didn’t want my fakeness, the way my school friends didn’t want my realness. Curly and wavy and oily tresses of all shades were celebrated. My fake hair had turned as dry as the bristles of a toilet brush. With the help of more accepting friends, I shaved my head to a buzz cut. The breeze caressed my scalp as I was liberated from my chemically damaged hair.

Thankfully, new hair started growing. Very slowly, they curled on top of my head. I let them do their little cartwheels and somersaults. One day a tuft of hair had curled on my neck and I pressed it between two fingers. I can’t forget the wave of pleasure that passed through me.

Clicked by Gitu

So I spent a decade with curly hair without taming them with combs and brushes. Detangling them patiently with a wide tooth comb. Quenching their thirst for water and oil. Soon, I found out about the Curly Girl Method. I learned to scrunch and coil my hair to craft my curls.

Clicked by me

My hyper-curled curly hair drew compliments from friends and students. I used all the costly products I could afford - conditioner, cream, gel. My hyper-curled curly became so hard to maintain, that they reminded me of my artificially straightened straight hair. Then the enemy was curliness, now the enemy was frizz. Then I wanted perfectly straight hair, and now I wanted perfectly curly hair.

Two months ago, I was enjoying a Coke Studio Pakistan video. The singers Quratulain Balouch, Zain, and Zohaib sing the song Thagyan so gorgeously. Their voices are sexy and so are their curly hair. And they aren’t perfect. The frizz has been honoured. Their hair glow as the song reaches climax. I was reminded of the singer Abida Parveen, and how her frizzy hair give her a golden aura when she renders her Sufi songs.

Quratulain Balouch singing Thagyan

Abida Parveen singing Tu Jhoom

The Hindi word for curly is ‘ghungraale’. It reminds me of the Hindi word ‘ghunghroo’ - small, round, musical bells that dancers wear on their ankles. I did not hear the music my curly hair were trying to make, even though my ears were right beside them. Finally, I tuned in. Here’s what my curly hair were singing to me:

love us not because we are curly, but because you are curly too. Love us to love everything that’s twisted, and un-straight, and different about you. How your thoughts are curly, feelings all tangled, your healing non-linear, how your growth is super slow. Love us unconditionally, but love us with conditioner, please. Take your fingers through our communities. We are sovereign beings, we do what we want, we are happy you’ve stopped taming us. Now, stop trying to choreograph us into perfection. Accept us in all seasons, even when you are sick and you have wrapped us in a tangled bun for days. It’s okay. Love your curly hair to love everything that is wild about you.

After listening to my curly hair, I see curls everywhere. Actors, influencers, and writers wear their curls like a crown. The animated Disney character, Mirabel has curls dancing on her head as she moves around her casita. The diversity of curls is being charted: wavy, curly, coily, and kinky. I see curls in nature. Tendrils, wildflowers, frizzy trees. Ocean waves, gurgling rivers. And the shell on the back of a snail. The octopus looks like a whole curly creature. Human DNA is a curly structure, and some of us are lucky to have curliness written in our DNA.

Clicked by Shruthi

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