My Hair and I Essay

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My Hair and I

At some point in a woman's life, she is, if like most women, unhappy with her hair. A woman with straight hair wishes for curly ringlets. A woman with curly hair wants stick-straight locks. Thick and coarse desires to be fine and thinner. Fine and thin begs for thick hair.

I was one of those women. My hair has an energy, personality, and life of her own. I refer to my hair as "she" because, although by technical definition my hair is not a separate living being, and although I have no proof of her life to show others, I know that she not only grows and reproduces (two characteristics by which many measure life), but she responds to stimuli, shows emotions, and can reason.

For much of my life, my hair and I were
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Don't ask what business an Indian girl with my hair had getting a white American pageboy 'do. It was wrong, I realize that now. But I remember after getting that cut, my hair began to freely express her emotions and moods. It was like she had woken from a long, deep slumber. Maybe it was the shorter length, maybe it was a natural development phase. It's not clear why she chose to stage her debut at that point. But one thing was clear, she was not going to do whatever I wanted her to.

When I was 13, I decided to grow out my pageboy style. This decision was not difficult (but unfortunately for me, not timely). I decided this after looking at my seventh grade yearbook picture. I was smiling into the camera. My hair was pointing in five different directions from my head, screaming "I wanna be a star!!"

Naturally, during adolescence, I decided to test my independence, forge new boundaries, and find my personality. My hair was no different.

Our morning routine was usually the showdown. Every morning, I trudged to the bathroom, still wiping the sleep from my eyes, vaguely aware of the struggle ahead of me. There, in the reflection of the mirror, my head would still be wearing yesterday's styling havoc. My hair would look back at me with a wide grin, while dancing a jig on top of my head, and say, "What are we gonna do today?!?"

"No!" I would whine, jabbing a brush indiscriminately into the tangled
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