Like so many, my rollercoaster of a hair journey began in my teens: When I was 15, I took box dye and attempted to give myself blonde highlights. The result was an embarrassing brassy, brassy mess. Three years later, in a fit of frustration at my hair’s uncontrollable, unruly nature, I cut it all off (I immediately regretted this impulsive decision). Thick, coarse, dull, and wild in its random waves and curls, my hair has always been less of a friend and more of a foe — something to tackle and conquer. My childhood is punctuated with memories of my mother tugging and pulling my hair into submission. And no matter how many times I’ve had it thinned out or layered or chemically treated, it’s always left my hair frizzy, damaged, and, quite frankly, disappointing.
So, over a decade ago, I washed my hands of it all — no more dyes, no more chemicals, no more hot tools. Nothing. I resigned myself to a life of taming it by twisting it into a French braid, or throwing it up into a topknot, or smoothing it back into a ponytail.
