I always admired girls with long, fine, and thick hair that looked sleek and shiny. Most importantly, their hair was straight.

Unlike most East Asians, born with straight hair, I have naturally wavy and coarse hair. The irregular waves prevent me from achieving a “French curl” naturally; my hair is too coarse and voluminous. Chinese hairdressers were often amazed, then intimidated, and finally annoyed when dealing with my hair.

“Where did you get your waves done?” They’d touch my hair and curiously examine my school-age face. “I thought perms weren’t allowed in school.”

“I was born with them,” I’d reply with a smile.

“Wow… Natural waves,” they’d usually exclaim. “With your hair this coarse and thick, straightening might take a while.” They’d gently fiddle with my hair.

My mother accompanied me to every haircut until I was sixteen. In the first thirty years of my life, I recalled having my hair cut short just once, at the start of elementary school. The result was disastrous – my thick, stubborn hair stood defiantly from my head, resembling a pile of wild grass with flowers.

During school days, I couldn’t let my long hair down; it had to be tied into a ponytail. Some kids and adults questioned why my ponytail had curls. To avoid the recurring question, I began braiding my ponytail. I longed for a long, straight, and shiny ponytail like the other girls.

“When your hair looks ‘wild,’ it shows character,” my mom would tell me whenever I complained. “Focus on your grades; appearance doesn’t matter.”

In junior high, I asked my mom if I could undergo permanent straightening treatment. She agreed after my sixteenth birthday, symbolizing a step toward making decisions for myself.

I received my first chemical hair straightening treatment at the age of sixteen. I vividly recall the summer evening when my mother accompanied me to the salon. The hairdresser embarked on the arduous process of straightening my hair, which seemed to stretch on for an eternity. First, the chemicals had to soften my hair, a procedure that felt interminable. Then came the washing, followed by the hair being straightened with a heated iron, after which it received another chemical treatment and a lengthy wait, followed by another wash. Finally, he washed my hair, blow-dried it, and straightened it once more with the heated iron.

The hot steam occasionally scalded my neck and ears during the contact between the straightening iron and my damp hair.

“Sorry,” the hairdresser would apologize. “It’s part of the process.”

Sitting in that chair for five hours, trying not to move, might sound dreadful, but it wasn’t a major issue for me as a teenager. I had plenty on my mind to occupy me during those hours of inactivity. I was the last customer, and the salon closed at 8 pm. By that time, I was still not finished. So, the hairdresser closed the front door and turned on the TV, which helped pass the time. It was World Cup time. A football game between Argentina and Germany was on, and it was an exhilarating match. Both teams played brilliantly, and the game went into a penalty shootout.

Germany emerged victorious that day.

I believe it wasn’t easy for my mom to wait there with me. I suspect she must have stepped out to buy some food for me, although I don’t remember precisely. Knowing her, I believe she did. She often brought me lamb barbecue in bread. She also apologized to the hairdresser for the delay, attributing it to my unruly hair.

That’s the first time mom allowed me to take control and had my hair chemically straightened, having herself as the facilitator and witness.

Since the new hair that grows out is still how it originally looks, if I want to look “normal,” I will have to renew the procedure regularly. So after that, I did it with my hair once every year.

After mom passed, I thought of her almost every time I sit in a hair salon chair. The haircut I got after her death was a year later, when I had my hair straightened and then cut short, just to look like her. The next time I went to the hair salon was five months after my baby daughter was born. I wasn’t satisfied with how my hair looked for a while. The straight top layer awkwardly concealed the wild strands beneath, which were thick and resilient, defying gravity.

I told myself and others that I wouldn’t chemically straighten my hair as long as I was still breastfeeding. Deep down, however, I was curious how my natural hair might look. I wondered how I really look like. I haven’t seen that girl since first grade. The girl who has frizzy hair that’s like wild grass. Later I could get the rest of the straightened hair cut. I get to see that girl again. And the curls don’t look bad at all.

I decided to let myself be me. For far too many years, I had constantly changed this part of me for I saw something about myself as a flaw, a problem that needed fixing. As if I had to take some medicine to function, to fit in.

I chose to be free and let the wild grass grow freely, into flowers.

As I looked at my peacefully sleeping daughter, I noticed the tiny curls on her baby hair.

“Adorable. She’ll look great with cute curls like that.”

Maybe she will grow to hate it. But one day, she will probably turn to love it. I know I will always love it for her.