The feeling of my mother’s rough hands as she tightly combed through my ratchet hair still lives vividly in my mind. I still remember sitting on the edge of the bed as my mother oiled, massaged, and rubbed through each and every strand of my hair. The smell of the coconut oil permeated the room every Sunday morning; it was hard to forget. In a tight braid, prim and proper, I went to school. I would circle my hair on the back of my head into a tight bun, the braid still in tact for my showers. And one final braiding session with my mother to end the night. Tight, tight, tighter. My braid became part of me.
I was never really a huge fan of my hair. It brought me more strife than anything. The frizz at the top, and god forbid I took the hair out of the braid because it would become an unruly lion’s mane. The tight braid brought me some comfort in knowing that at the very least, my hair was tied back in its rightful place: away from the eyes of the world. My hair was animalistic in a way, truly embodying the way I saw myself and my culture – something to hold back, tie up, and never let free.
My family always said they loved my hair – especially the little poof balls at the end of my two long braids. I never understood it because what they said so starkly differed from what every hair type around me resembled.
It wasn’t until I left home for college that I began to question why I’d spent so many years trying to tame something that was so deeply a part of me. There was no more mother with a brush and a jar of coconut oil waiting every Sunday morning. No more nightly braiding sessions. Just me, a new shower with hard water, and a head of confused curls that had no idea what freedom looked like.
At first, I didn’t know what to do with it. The braid had always been the answer, even throughout most of high school. But here, alone, in a new place where no one knew the rituals of my childhood, I found space to experiment. I let the curls breathe. I let them dry on their own, wild and soft. I tried new products—mousse, leave-in conditioner, the infamous “plopping” technique I found on some curly hair forum at 2 a.m. And I failed often. My hair puffed out, shrank up, tangled itself over and over again. But with every new attempt, I felt something loosen—not in my curls, but in me.
There was a strange joy in watching my hair expand unapologetically, as though it had been waiting years for permission. And in learning to care for it—not hide it, not fight it—I began to care for myself differently. I started to understand that my hair wasn’t the enemy. It was a living memory, a story, and a connection.
Curls, like culture, aren’t meant to be flattened into neatness. They twist and spiral and reach in different directions, but always grow from the roots. They carry history, emotion, resistance. My hair, so long treated as something to control, had always been trying to teach me something: about softness, about pride, about love. Not the type that’s earned through discipline or perfection, but the kind that’s given freely and loved unconditionally—even to the tangled parts.
Now, when I catch my reflection, curls framing my face like a crown, I see the little girl on the edge of the bed. I see my mother’s hands. I see the oil, the tenderness, the patience. I see generations of women who loved me in braids, and I love them back in curls.
Because my hair was never just hair. It was, and still is, my inheritance.
