By Sophia Madeb, Arts and Culture Editor
Walking down the eccentric streets of SoHo, I began my day’s journey to cut and color my hair, which I like to call my much-needed “C and C appointment.” I held my usual emotional support cup of iced coffee in one hand and played with my hair in the other, twisting it at the ends. It was one of those moments where I became extra aware of my surroundings, looking at each cobblestone and the beautiful people stepping across them. It might have been the intoxicating, fashionable air or the fact my mind was already on hair, but I couldn’t help but notice that each person I passed wore a different and most likely artificial hairstyle.
No two people wore their hair the same. Some had straight brown hair with layers upon layers. Others had slightly highlighted hair with dead ends at the bottom, trying to be subtly cool — like the first woman who passed by me, though it was obvious she put in effort. Some people had hair colored in all colors of the rainbow, others had only thin spikes of hair left. And of course there were the few who had no hair at all.
Hair is something that is naturally a part of us, yet many of us feel the need to manipulate it. I couldn’t help but wonder, why are so many people constantly changing what nature intended to be a certain way? As I subtly judge these poor, unsuspecting pedestrians, I felt like a hypocrite, because I too have changed my hair from its original state.
Growing up, I had thick brown curls. And I hated them. There were moments when I became so frustrated with my hair that I would stomp into the bathroom on a mission, grab a small pair of nail scissors from the drawer and, quietly hopping onto the vanity to get a closer view at the mirror, would cut the frizzy flyways near my middle part. I still have an uneven hairline from the continuous amateur haircuts in my bathroom salon.
When I wasn’t frustrated with my curls, it seemed like my mom was frustrated with them. Every morning before school, I would stand in front of her saying a small prayer while she used a black brush with thick bristles that almost fought against my hair, twisting it into different shapes to create a braided ponytail. Every day, I wore this tight pony braid, restricting my curls into one consolidated position. I think I had a headache for my whole elementary school career.
From morning to noon, I tried to make sure my hair wouldn’t move, using various products and making countless trips to the bathroom to slick water onto it. Whenever I saw or even felt a curl escape my pony braid, it meant another trip to the bathroom. My goal was to keep my hair perfectly in place, but in truth all I wanted was for it to be free. Free from the tight twists. But my mom insisted that a pony braid was the best way to control my hair. Still, the control never lasted. The flyaways eventually made their embarrassing appearance by late afternoon.
By middle school, my hair didn’t feel like something to control anymore, but something I needed to hide. I might have moved up to the middle school floor, but the headaches still remained, along with my stable pony braid. As I gained the freedom to move around between classes, I began to notice the various hair styles in the hall. It felt like walking the streets of SoHo, but with more skirts and fewer guys.
Most of the girls at my school had straight hair, including most of my friends. I felt different from them and even from my teachers. I remember walking into English class wondering why I wasn’t lucky enough to have my teacher’s blonde, straight hair. Each time I walked in with my curls, I felt different, and I didn’t like that. Why didn’t I look like everyone else? I hated this thing that was naturally a part of me, and wanted to hide it away.
I constantly complained to my friends about the frizz, the curls, the constant headaches. That is, until she told me that she straightened her hair every other day. I was shocked. It looked so natural. She offered to teach me over FaceTime. That night, I secretly grabbed my older sister’s hair iron and sat close to the mirror, a position that felt uncomfortably similar to my amateur salon days.
The next morning, I walked to school with my head held high and a smile painted ear to ear. My friends looked at me shocked. I was hoping they would notice my new hairstyle, but just not in the way I expected. Instead my friend who taught me over FaceTime said, “Sophia, I told you to repeat every section, including the back.” She took me to the bathroom and turned me toward the mirror. There, I saw the truth: the front of my hair looked like everyone else’s, but the back revealed who I really was: a girl with curly hair.
I was so embarrassed, I returned to my familiar pony braid. It wasn’t until my freshman year of high school that my mom proposed I do a keratin treatment. I am 4’11, so wearing a pony braid during the first week of high school made me feel like I was the same girl from middle school. I was convinced people might start to actually think that I was still 11. I was fed up looking this way, so we finally took action.
My mom took me to the appointment, exchanging words with the hairdresser in Hebrew. He slapped a series of chemicals onto my hair and four hours later, I looked like everybody else. I finally felt like I didn’t need to keep my head down in the sea of straight-haired girls, because now I fit in. I was a part of them. From freshman year until the end of high school I would visit David, my hairdresser, to slightly burn my scalp. My mind felt relieved from the emotional stress, and my head did from the physical strain of the ponytails.
But the treatments were not enough. I didn’t want to just have straight hair, I wanted blonde highlights. I wanted to be like everyone else. And it seemed like everyone was getting highlights. But my mom would never let me, so I did the most rebellious thing I have ever done in my life. On my 17th birthday, I told my mom I was at school studying for the New York State Regents with my friends, went into a sketchy Chinese hair salon next to my house and told them to make me blonde. I came away feeling fabulous, but my mom was tearing up and grounded me for the next few months. But the real punishment came at school, where girls laughed at the white streaks running through my hair.
My mom made me keep the “tiger stripes,” as my friends like to call them now, to show me that actions have consequences. Eventually she took me to David, and from then until the end of senior year, I had three highlight appointments a year on top of a keratin treatment once a year. I looked like every other girl, and I gained a sense of satisfaction from my artificial hair. I relied on these appointments to boost my confidence and happiness.
At the time, it genuinely did feel like confidence, but it was rooted in conformity. This wasn’t me. I tried so hard to fit in, I forgot who I was. Through smoke and mirrors, I had become the girl I thought everyone wanted to see, rather than the girl I truly was, smart and talented in ways that went beyond mere looks. Girls are more than hair, they can be smart, funny and passionate in all kinds of ways.
It was only in college that I realized that. But I didn’t discover it on my own but rather with the help of my fabulous yet blunt New York City hairstylist. “As I made my way to my regular “C and C” that day in SoHo,” he told me he could no longer treat and bleach my hair. I turned to him like I saw the ghost of my curly hair past. He said that I lost so much hair from the constant bleaching that treating it further would do more harm than good. I told him I was scared. I was scared that I didn’t know who I was with curly hair, but he assured me I would be fine with the right products and correct hair routine.
He sent me links to the products he used on my hair and gave me a much better tutorial than my friend from middle school did on FaceTime. Over time, I began to see results that I liked. I like that my hair has volume with full waves, rather than being straight and flat. Straight and flat doesn’t represent who I am. I was meant to have waves. This isn’t me trying to fit in. It is a manifested expression on the outside of who I really am as a person.
Now, as I walk down the streets of SoHo, I let my curly hair free. No more headaches. No more conforming. This is me. I might still get highlights again in the future, but after all, this is New York City, a place filled with endless opportunities to experiment, reinvent, and express oneself. At least now I am finding a balance between authenticity and change, because change can be good when it is not fully overtaking you. So get the highlights. Make the treatment appointments, just don’t let them make you.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of Sophia Madeb