As a Black man, my journey with my curls has been one of self-discovery, cultural pride, and pushing back against societal norms. For us, hair is never just hair—it’s a statement of identity, a celebration of our roots, and a silent act of defiance against a world that often tries to define who we are.
My mother, with her own crown of coily hair, took such pride in styling mine. When I was a baby, she’d braid it, twist it, or leave it free to thrive in its natural state. She even shared with me a story of how at family gatherings, my aunties would run their fingers through my hair, exclaiming, “Look at those beautiful curls!” Back then, my hair was simply a part of me, as unremarkable as my laughter or the way I loved Saturday morning cartoons. But as I grew up, I was ashamed of my curls.
The first time I became aware of my curly hair was in elementary school. I was one of the few Black kids in a predominantly white classroom. My classmates, with their straight, silky hair, would often ask to touch mine, marveling at its texture. “It’s like a sponge,” they would say, as if my hair were some kind of science experiment.
Their fascination wasn’t harmful, but it left me feeling exposed and different. It wasn’t my first encounter with how my Blackness, starting with my hair, made me stand out in ways I wasn’t yet ready to comprehend.
By the time I got to middle school, I wanted to fit in with everyone else. There was one boy who got bullied because of his curls, where I decided from then to always have a buzz cut or fade. After years of getting a buzz cut, I looked in the mirror and saw someone who fit in—but it wasn’t entirely me.
The buzz cut didn’t stop the world from seeing my Blackness first. It didn’t shield me from microaggressions or sidelong glances. Instead, it taught me that no matter how much I tried to conform, there would always be parts of me I couldn’t erase—nor did I want to.
In high school, things began to shift. Mainstream media like music, art, and style was taking center stage. Rappers, athletes, and actors wore their curls unapologetically, challenging beauty standards that had long ignored us.
By the time I got to college, I was surrounded by Black men embracing their natural hair in every form imaginable. Each curl style told a story, and each story was beautiful. Inspired, I decided to grow my hair out. Initially, it wasn’t a bold declaration; I just wanted to see what my hair could do. But as my curls began to take shape, so did my confidence.
I felt free when I explored my relationship with my curls for the first time. I experimented with deep conditioners, sulfate-free shampoos, and curl creams to achieve a look. It wasn’t just about style but about self-care and self-acceptance for the curls. Wearing my curls feels like a quiet tribute to the legacy of those who came before me, who fought to wear their hair without fear or shame.
Every morning, my hair routine feels like an act of love. I cleanse carefully, use deep conditions to hydrate my curls and style them with intention. Each step reminds me that my hair is worth time and attention—just like I am. And while it’s true that some days my curls don’t behave as I want them to, I’ve learned to embrace the imperfection.
Looking back, my relationship with my curls mirrors my journey as a Black man. Both have required me to navigate a world that often tries to box me in, to define me before I can describe myself. Because in a world that tries to tell us who we should be, choosing to be yourself is the most powerful statement you can make. My hair doesn’t need to be perfect; it simply needs to be mine. My hair—just like me—is a work in progress. And that’s okay.