Curls, confidence, and Christmas Tree Hair: thoughts on my daughter's straight hair day
This morning, I watched my daughter head off to school with her curls straightened. The same curls that frame her face like an unruly halo most days, wild and full of personality, were now smooth and sleek, falling with ease down her back. She looked beautiful, she always does. Still, my heart did a lil somersault, a quiet worry tugging at me…
Petra’s natural curls are both gorgeous and high-maintenance. They tangle, they frizz, they defy gravity, and they’re not for the faint of heart… or the low on conditioner. But they’re hers. And she owns them with a confidence I wish I’d had at her age. She wears them in big puffs, tight space buns, or full ringlets, depending on the day and the mood. And she likes them!
But today, with her hair straightened just for fun, I felt myself hoping the compliments she might get wouldn’t shake that confidence. I hoped no one would say, “You should wear it like this all the time,” in that casual, well-meaning way that lands like a brick.
Because I remember.
I remember when a classmate gave me the nickname “Christmas Tree Hair.” My hair was thick, wavy, a forest of volume I hadn’t yet figured out how to tame. That nickname, innocent as it might have sounded, cut deep. The girl who said it had that perfect, fine hair and petite features like a character on 90210. Me? I had big Slavic features and loud, thick hair.
Flat irons weren’t a thing back then, so I often begged my mom to help me straighten it. She’d spend almost an hour with a round brush and a blow dryer, coaxing it into something sleeker. Something closer to what I thought I was supposed to look like. It never quite worked the way I wanted.
Funny how time and hindsight flip the script.
When I got to high school, my hairstylist Kim at Chelsea’s Salon asked if I’d be a hair model. My thick hair held every style, every color, every updo. Suddenly, what had made me self-conscious became the exact thing that made me stand out in a good way! I’d walk out of the salon with hair that made people stop and stare, and not because it looked like holiday decor. Hair modeling gave me the freedom to experiment: a bleached undercut with black hair, a platinum blonde pixie, wild colors I never would’ve dared before.
I stopped wishing I could just blend in, and started embracing what made me stand out.
So this morning, as I watched Petra head off to meet her friends on the playground, straight hair streaming in the wind, I smiled at the joy of getting to play with style. But I also sent a little hope out into the universe. A hope that she never feels like she has to change who she is to be enough. That she knows straight hair is just a style, not the standard. And that her curls aren’t just good enough. They’re glorious.
Like everything that sets us apart is.
I’m proud that she already accepts her curls more than I accepted my “big hair” at her age. Maybe that’s progress. Maybe that’s the cycle being rewritten. Whatever it is, I’m proud to cheer her on whether she’s rocking her wild curls or sleek strands.
Maygen
p.s. In retrospect, Christmas trees are pretty damn fabulous.
