during wash days growing up. By three-years-old, I had a relaxer and was committed to Sunday hot comb rituals, where my grandma warmed the sizzling tool on the stovetop to press out my roots.
In middle school, extensions – haphazardly glued to my scalp—become my staple look to blend in with my predominantly white competitive cheer team.
When I got to high school, lace front wigs were plastered across the front of my hairline twice a month, so I could always have the latest hairstyles.Growing up in the South in a family of cosmetologists, weaves felt like a rite of passage.
There was a pervasive internalized belief that Black natural hair was unmanageable, had no versatility, and couldn't exist without being incessantly straightened.
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