You can tell a lot about a person by their hair. It somewhat reflects their personality, I think. Mine's always been curly. When I was a little girl, it hung around my head in a fuzzy halo of golden ringlets. Usually, I quite like it, and enjoy with a rebellious lilt a hair do that's divergent from the blown-out masses.

That is not to say that I haven't oftentimes gazed longingly at the silky smooth locks of other women’s hair. Somewhere along the line, I came to equate straight styles with a certain type of person, one who carries the expensive handbags I peruse on ebay and goes on real dates with the guys I just hook up with.

Last week, I borrowed my friend's ceramic iron and straightened my hair.

Maybe I thought the change would make me one of them. In actuality, with straight hair, I felt invisible. But the ritual of it felt calming and sure, a solve-all inspired by a flat iron and the satisfaction I felt from watching the kinks flatten and the frizz become smooth. It was as if, by straightening out my hair, I was straightening up my life.

I recently remarked to the amazing Ariella, "When the going gets tough, the women in my family do our hair"

Twelve years ago, in the midst of familial turmoil, my mom went off to Washington D.C. for a weekend with some friends. When she returned, it was as a white suited businesswoman, with shockingly straight hair, highlights, and high-heeled shoes of python printed patent leather. The transformation was especially drastic as her free spirited artistic nature was usually mirrored by her appearance. But gone was her long and curly hair, her paint stained button ups and her red converse high tops. My mom suddenly looked like everyone else's.
In retrospect, it is clear that she was trying to be seen, controlling the only thing she could in a fucked up environment. It’s funny though, I think that the changes she made to her hair and her clothes, struck at the core of who she is and what makes her stand out, and erased it a bit. She became less noticeable to my father, to the community, and more blended in with what she sought to separate out from.

This morning, on the subway to work, I sat across from a window that the dark of the tunnel outside had tuned into a mirror. A week ago, when I’d done the same, I saw myself reflected back as foreign, a distant stranger with the straight hair that, to my mind, gives the impression of a simple lifestyle. Today I looked in the window, saw a curly haired girl, and breathed a sigh of relief, for in her eyes and unkempt curls I saw an acceptance of girlhood, an affirmation of my own curious playful soul, and an accompanying ability to accept the intricacies of my life. I am a corkscrew curl of a woman, one who loves to dance, dream and play dress-up. It is my hope however, that I’ll always return back to myself, to my mother’s arms, to my father’s laugh, holding the memory of each next to my curly, complicated heart.