I remember my mother brushing my hair when I was young. It was a curly mass of tangles that shot off of my head in every direction and refused to be tamed. My mother called it charming and playful. I hated it with a passion.
During my first day of elementary school, I discovered that the tightly wound curls on my head weren't common. Like my family, the girls that I associated with in the schoolyard all had bone-straight hair and gorgeous ponytails that cascaded down their necks like waterfalls. When I arrived home, I asked my mother if I could wear my hair like my friends. I was mortified when I discovered that the beautiful, flowing stands of hair that I had once imagined were corrupted into a wild ball of curls situated atop my head, suspended