I was graced with blonde curly hair. The kind of hair that curls in unexpected ways. The kind or hair that resists being tamed. The kind of hair that gets frizzy and kinky in the humidity. The kind of hair that tangles easily.

My mother was not a gentle person. Nor was she a patient person. My hair was a constant source of frustration for my mother.

My mother would brush my hair and become angry when I would wiggle away or complain loudly at how much it hurt when she pulled the brush through my tangled curls. My mother would hit my head with the hard plastic brush and yell at me to stand still. Not an easy task for a young girl being subjected to painful tugs and pulls.

My mother would insist that I sleep with uncomfortable, hard curlers in my hair. Stiff black textured curlers that stuck straight into my head and made it impossible to sleep. Curlers with bobby pins holding them in place. In the morning, curlers would be twisted this way and that, while bobby pins would be scattered throughout the bed. And still my hair would not be tamed.

As I grew from a young girl to a young woman, I had a love-hate relationship with my hair. My long, blonde, curly hair that everyone would say was so pretty.

I would blow dry my hair, using a round brush to flatten my hair. I would use a curling iron to smooth out the curls. I even tried hot rollers to control the direction of the curls. But humidity always won out and my hair would revert to its unruly curls. I tried very long hair. And very short hair. Always the curls won out.

Time has passed and I have come to accept my hair as a natural part of who I am. And instead of waging unsuccessful battles on my curls, I have learned to embrace them. There are still days when I have a rogue curl swirling in the wrong direction, perhaps one that swoops down over an eye or reaches in to tickle my ear.

But my curly hair is healthy. My curly hair is beautiful. My curly hair is part of my identity. I’ve come to love my blonde curly hair.