A few years ago, if you’d told me my hair would ever grow past my shoulders, I’d have laughed in disbelief. And if you’d mentioned it to me a few years before that, I’d have been so horrified at the prospect of wearing my hair in its natural state I’d have probably fainted.
It’s safe to say, times have changed. When it comes to me and my hair, there has been literal and emotional growth. Now, I’m actively seeking out ways to make my hair bigger and bolder and create tighter, more defined curls. And I’ve found the easiest – and, importantly, completely free – way to do it.
But, I’m getting ahead of myself. When it comes to talking about curly hair, I think it’s best to start at the beginning (there’s a lot to unpack here).
As a child, I had a halo of glossy curls that were the perfect representation of my mixed-race heritage: not as coarse as my Jamaican dad’s afro had been, but it had all the volume; far curlier than my English mum’s straight hair, but just as fine.
My hair was big and bold and I’d spend hours having it braided, or I’d leave the curls hanging around my waist. Sometimes I’d pile them on top of my head so ringlets framed my face and tickled the tops of my shoulders. I was so, so proud of it.
Then, I went to high school. And that’s where so many curly-haired people’s stories follow a similar path. Back then, curly hair wasn’t ‘in’. Every cool girl I knew had poker-straight lengths – the exact opposite of mine. I realised that, especially in my northern, predominantly white school, my hair – and therefore me – stuck out like a sore thumb.
And so, the straightening began. Most days, I flattened every inch of my hair, repeatedly. I’d take my ghds to school and redo it in the toilets at break time and lunch. I’d pay £1 to use the straighteners in my local shopping centre when I was out with friends.
“You’ll damage your hair,” my mum would always say. “The curls won’t come back in the same way.” I didn’t care – I couldn’t imagine a time when I’d actually want them to return anyway. So, I kept on straightening. And straightening.
This lasted for a good 10 years. When I reached my twenties, I began to wear my hair curly now and again. After all, the straightening process was pretty exhausting.
But I just couldn’t shake this feeling that my natural hair wasn’t always ‘appropriate’. For special events, job interviews, dates or any occasion I wanted to look my best, I would always, always reach for the straighteners.
Looking back, there were so many reasons for this. I rarely saw myself reflected on the pages of the magazines I read, in the films I watched or in the hairstyles posted all over social media. Representation matters, and when you can’t relate to the images you’re constantly fed, it affects you more than you realise.
I also think that the experiences you have as a teenager can influence you long after you think you’re over them. The comments other kids made about my ‘frizzy’ hair at school – no matter how offhand or insignificant they may have seemed – stayed with me. And I found it so hard to block out thoughts that it still wasn’t attractive, or professional, or ‘cool’ enough.
But then came the first Covid lockdown. Forced to stay home with nowhere to go, my straighteners stayed on their shelf in my wardrobe. Days, weeks and months went by without me even thinking about using them.
I even began playing around with my curly hair again, like when I was little. I’d braid it, twist it into Bantu knots and try to make it as big and voluminous as possible.
Through Instagram, I discovered my now-hero products to help me with my experiments: a Davines curl cream to smooth, a Trepadora gel to define curls, the Dizziak conditioner of dreams and a Bouclème oil to add shine, to name just a few.
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Surrounded by only family, I no longer felt pressure to dial down my hairstyles. I realised what now seems so obvious: I’d only been straightening my hair to fit in with what I thought other people wanted. It had been so long that I’d forgotten how much joy my curls brought me.
Gradually, I started to wear my hair naturally because I wanted to, not just because I was stuck at home.
Though I had noticed a change in my hair. The curl pattern was… different. Looser than it used to be. Some bits even stayed pretty straight, no matter how much I tried to tease them into ringlets. The ends were dry, split and straggly. My hair had lost its shine. My mum had been right all along: years of training my hair out of his natural state had had a long-term effect. It was only now that I realised how damaged my hair was.
The signs had been there, but they were easy to ignore. In the last 15 years or so, my hair has never grown past my collarbones. Often, the ends would snap off as I brushed it. I got really good at ‘fixing’ this with serums and clip-in extensions, so I never thought too much about it. But after a full year of not straightening my hair, I started to see an improvement.
My hair began to grow. A lot. I had less split ends, and when I brushed my hair, nothing broke off. Using zero heat (only the occasional blast of a hairdryer on a cold day) and plenty of hydrating products (shout out to Pattern’s brilliant leave-in conditioner) meant my hair retained its moisture, too.
So when the lockdowns finally lifted, the curls came with me everywhere: to job interviews, special occasions, dates – all of those situations I’d once thought it wasn’t ‘appropriate’ to wear natural hair to.
And… the world didn’t stop turning. Nobody made any mean comments. In fact, people seemed to like my hair curly. But that no longer mattered, because I liked it. I began to wonder what would happen if I kept this no-straightening thing going. Six months passed. Then, a few more.
Recently, I straightened my hair for the first time in two years and eight months, for no real reason other than I was curious as to how it would look. If anything, I felt a bit nervous about it. Part of me worried that straightening my hair after all this time would be almost like a betrayal; that my years of unlearning toxic perceptions of textured hair had been wasted.
I might seem silly, talking about hair in such a serious way. But for me, it is serious. My hair is a physical representation of the cultures I come from and the experiences I’ve had. It’s such a defining aspect of my appearance and it forms a huge part of my identity, and how I wear it affects how I feel.
So, I went into my wardrobe and pulled out my wide ghds for the first time since early 2020. I’m surprised they still worked (to this day, they’re still the best, hardiest hair tool I’ve ever had). I turned them on, heard the familiar ‘beep beep’ to signal they were ready, and as I began to separate my hair into sections, spraying on a heat protector and working my way through each section with military precision, it felt like no time had passed at all.
But when I sat back and looked at the finished style, I looked… weird. Nice, but weird. I wasn’t used to seeing myself in that way anymore. I still like my hair straight, but it felt like I was trying on a character. And when it came to wash day, watching my hair spring back into curls felt like coming home.
My hair has gotten so long, it now reaches the bottom of my shoulder blades. The shine has returned, it’s less frizzy and doesn’t tangle as much. The thick spirals from my childhood – a typical 3b curl pattern – have come back, and it’s the healthiest it has ever been. Proof if you ever needed it that a constant use of heat does have a dramatic effect on the condition of your hair. There has been a noticeable shift both in my hair’s texture and my outlook.
Now, even though I do get my straighteners out from time to time, when I want a style that will bring me confidence for those big occasions, I no longer turn to heated tools for a big transformation anymore – I leave my hair exactly as it is.
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