The cold cream slowly seeped into my roots. The pillows curved under me, tears flowing down my cheeks. My head throbbed. The perm began to burn, but I stayed silent. The longer it stayed in, the straighter my hair would be. This was ‘beauty,’ and I learned early on that “beauty is pain.” I yielded to society.
My grandmother was the first person to perm my hair. Her upper lip curled in disdain at anything bearing resemblance to natural hair. She would go on about how young women of color should always look “presentable,” and my hair, obviously, did not fit her description. Each word profoundly influenced my perspective, feeding into an underlying voice of self-loathing and hindered any growth in my perception of self.
Whenever I scrolled
My grandmother was the first person to perm my hair. Her upper lip curled in disdain at anything bearing resemblance to natural hair. She would go on about how young women of color should always look “presentable,” and my hair, obviously, did not fit her description. Each word profoundly influenced my perspective, feeding into an underlying voice of self-loathing and hindered any growth in my perception of self.
Whenever I scrolled