I’ve always known my curly hair was special.
It has always been a part of who I am and a mirror in how I navigate through self-expression. Although taxing to tend to, each bespoke coil can lend itself to be its own exhibit. Ironically, museum exhibits have always been a struggle to walk away from.
David Foster Wallace once said, “Everything I’ve ever let go of has claw marks on it.” I’d like to think that there is still a metaphorical 300 foot fault line break in the last New Image Cuts I stepped foot in. My mother would usher me in and all the women would squawk and come for their complimentary fistful of curl. I’d only go every few years so each woman’s falsetto “I miss you” was punctuated with a purple or red lip smack. In my memory I was ushered to my seat and my mother would blurt out her usual order: “Short on the sides. A little long on top.” 12 minutes later, the chair would swivel around and I’d feel lighter. So light, I could float away and shrink into the HVAC system. My mother would say, “Now you have a boy’s haircut.”
This self-titled ritual was inspired by a series of gender-related events. These events usually involved a Ross or a Marshall’s and me in a stroller as a younger version of myself. My golden curls would cascade down to my shoulders sending a hypnotic signal to elderly women to come take a gander. They’d lean forward nice and close and we’d exchange our exhibits. “Golden Ringlets” for them and “A Constellation of Liver Spots” for me. Then came the real catalyst. The post exhibits Q&A.
“Boy or girl?” one would ask.
And thus, the ritual was born. My mother hated that question. She wanted to ensure that it was not likely for it to slip out of someone’s mouth and slap her silly ever again. That’s when the yearly haircut ritual came. As soon as I was in my later years of highschool — I experienced my last ritual. I felt beastly afterwards. My blood weighed heavier. I was not myself.
I vowed to not let anyone touch the hair on my head for years.
Many a birthday passed and I ended up working for a health and wellness school. In came an older student of mine. I hesitate calling Ms.Claire a student because she was a force of nature in her own right. Her hair, a crown of silver, nodded to more than three lifetimes’ worth of experiences. This also showed not just in the lines on her face but in the wisdom tucked into her every word. I sat down with Ms. Claire to help organize her resume in the computer lab. She was looking to finally get a job as a Certified Nursing Assistant. That way, she could finally leave the homeless shelter she was in. One day, after many diatribes about her agitating bunkmate doing drugs in her space, she finally finished her resume. As a thank you, she told me she was going to bring me a gift.
I didn’t think anything of it until I saw her the next day. She wasn’t even supposed to be on campus. Lo and behold, she took the train and a bus all the way across town to hand me half a bottle of “Ms. Jessie’s Jelly Soft Curls.” I tried to refuse, but she insisted I couldn’t deny an old lady who made her way across town for me. It seemed as though it wasn’t just a half-empty bottle of product she was giving me, but a piece of her journey. That night after my shower, I applied the product and rubbed it into my wet hair. It looked a little better, but something was off. I still didn’t get why it didn’t look like it did in the commercials.
The next day on campus, Ms. Arleta noticed something was different. I told her about my new product.
“Oh baby, you’re supposed to detangle your hair first.”
You learn something new every day. Minutes later, I found myself in her empty classroom, getting tugged at with a wet brush. This was unsettling, not just because of the discomfort, but because Ms. Arleta was the type of person who was always on the move—like a whirlwind on the freeway, already halfway to her next destination while everyone else was still packing up. For someone so perpetually in motion, taking the time to methodically unravel every curl on my head meant something more than just a quick favor.
By the time we were done, my head was gummy and raw, but my curls were phenomenal. It was in that moment that I realized this was more than just a detangling session; it was the beginning of a brand new ritual—one that would become a cornerstone of my self-care, a way to honor both the journey and the destination.
For so long, I knew my curls were a steadfast part of my identity. They bounced in a crowded room. They took many shapes and sizes and they sprawled out wherever they wanted. They get stuck in tight situations. They even let loose sometimes. They were me. Anytime they were cut, something felt off. When I look back, those three Misses catalyzed a new era of curl maintenance.
This is officially a love letter to Ms. Claire, Ms. Jessie, and Ms. Arleta.
After they played a part in helping me find my identity, day by day, I adopted new creams and potions that helped form my new wash and go ritual. The recipe is as follows:
For shampooing I alternate between Mielle’s Rosemary Mint Strengthening Shampoo and Head and Shoulders.
I actually learned to not wash my hair every single day as it may dry it out. So I alternated every other day or so. When it came to the Head and Shoulders, I didn’t like the way it made my hair feel, so I often tried my best to keep it isolated to a scalp treatment for dry skin.
For regular conditioning days I use Not Your Mother’s Natural Curls Tahitian Gardenia Flower & Mango Butter. I applied it to my hair after a wash and let it settle while I washed my body.
For detangling days (which I learned needed to happen more than not) I use Kinky Curly’s Knot Today leave-in and detangler. This product is a life saver for my 3C curls. I highly recommend this after trying many detanglers. Not only does it help me get out the worst knots, but I don’t need to wash all of it out since it is also a leave-in. I know two-in-one concepts can lend themselves to be scary, but this is certainly an anomaly.
When it comes to drying, my Kinky Curly lended me to easily air dry in an hour and end up with the bounciest coils. When I’m in a hurry, I tie my hair up into a microfiber hair drying towel. I recommend splurging for a micro-fiber towel if you don’t like a wet mess.
There you have it. My new ritual. It’s not much, but at the same time — it’s everything. I do toss in an oil or a hair mask when I want a little extra care, but truly, a steady ritual will do.
As I look back on the evolution of my hair journey, I realize it’s never just been about the curls. It’s about embracing who I am—every twist, every knot, and every strand. My hair has been a symbol of self-expression, a marker of identity, and at times, a source of frustration. But now, with this new ritual, it’s a celebration.
It’s funny how something as simple as a hair routine can become a daily act of self-care, a moment of grounding in a busy world. I’ve learned that taking care of my curls isn’t just about making them look good; it’s about honoring the person I’ve become. And that’s the real beauty of this ritual—it’s a reminder that I am worth the time and care, that each day is an opportunity to nourish not just my hair, but my spirit too.
Who would’ve thought that ten years after I left that New Image Cuts for the last time, I’d be in my new hairstylists salon chair. His curls told their own story, and he kindly reminded me of my early chapters. He mentioned how some parts of my hair were growing differently than others.
“Short on the sides, a little long on top.” echoed over the soft sounds of Sade whispering through the speakers.
This time, the phrase didn’t have much of a hold on me.
So here’s to the rituals that keep us grounded, the Misses that remind us about self-love and the Jeff’s who can see our stories and help us write our own ending.
