Word Count: 614

“Look in the mirror, Sanika! Your hair looks like ropes!” My mother grimaced as she touched my
extremely thick, voluminous, frizzy mess of curls. Every morning from the age of five, my mother
lathered a concoction of hair products and serums to tame the curls and frizz, then tied my hair
into a tight ponytail. However, being adventurous, often playing games at recess, by the end of
the day my ponytail dissolved into a mane of curls, much to my mother’s frustration. With all the
effort to subdue my curls, I began wondering if there was something wrong with my natural hair.
By 12 years old, believing my hair type was an oddity, I began to control my curls to fit in
amongst my peers and family.

Living in Folsom, California, a suburb east of Sacramento, I rarely saw other girls who had tight
curls and frizzy hair. During middle school, I scrolled through Instagram selfies of celebrities with
pin-straight long hair. The girls in my class copied their style of smooth, silky hair.
Embarrassingly, my wild-looking curls stood out. Furthermore, as a competitive swimmer, my
hair was exposed to the hazardous chemicals in the pool three hours a day, creating blonde
patches scattered throughout my hair. I was even more of an oddity.

Sometimes, when my hair isn’t tied in a ponytail, strangers don’t recognize me as being Indian. I
half-heartedly laugh to seem polite as I correct them. However, I was often ashamed that my
natural hairstyle was unlike my Indian peers: long and wavy. Once, while attending a birthday
party where all the guests were Indian, one of the girls asked me, “Are you Indian?” Though
everyone laughed at her, I was still embarrassed. I believed my atypical hair texture caused her
confusion.​ ​I questioned the authenticity of my ethnicity, wondering if being Indian meant having
straight, silky hair.

Wanting to fit in with my community, I bought a flat iron for my 13th birthday. Starting at 5 am
​ grueling process. I repeatedly placed
before school, I spent an hour straightening my hair​, a
small sections of curls between two hot metal plates while applying hair product to create a
smooth, shiny, silky look.​ However by the end of the day, I disappointedly sighed when looking
at my curly hair in the mirror—all my early morning efforts wasted. Yet, the next morning I again
applied 300 degrees of heat vainly attempting to flatten my curls, only further damaging my hair.

The more I tried to fit in, the more frustrated I became. Why could I not just be myself, content
and confident with how I looked? I wished to find something good about my natural hair. But, too
afraid to be different, for the next two years I continued flat-ironing my hair.

One day in 2016 while browsing my Instagram feed, I saw selfies of people proudly sporting
their curls, trending under #curlyhairdontcare. I was inspired. One day I didn’t straighten my
hair, letting the curls flow. I expected to hear deprecating remarks, but instead was commended.
The elderly patients at the hospital where I volunteered complimented me, “Oh your hair is
GORGEOUS! Make the most of it while you still have it!” Emboldened by their positive response
to my natural curls, I eventually stopped straightening my hair.
Now, I understand that life is more fulfilling when I stop trying to be someone else and instead
be true to myself. By gaining confidence as a frizzy, curly-haired Indian, I now trust my
experience that no matter life’s challenges, I’ll do what’s right for me. Knowing that history is
made through nonconformity, I let my hair down and go with the flow.