There was a time when I couldn’t imagine myself without straight hair. Sunday afternoons were devoted to my flatiron, oil sheen, and the sizzle of my hair frying between two metal plates. I loved the movement of my straight hair, the deep dark shine of my strands, even with the inevitable heat damage I was causing. I could not see my natural texture the same way. It was stubbornly immobile and did not reflect light the same way my pressed hair did. A year after giving up my relaxer, I still could not accept my natural hair.
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