A Crown of Coils

Growing up, I never quite liked my hair. Not because of its texture or its look, but because of the relentless battle it presented every single time I tried to tame it. Yes, tame—because that’s exactly what it felt like. My 4C hair, thick and coily, seemed to have a mind of its own, resisting my every attempt to mold it into something more “manageable.”

I vividly remember my mother’s hands moving quickly as she braided my hair or applied relaxer to smooth it out. The process was an endurance test. Relax, cut, grow out, repeat. All the while, my sensitive scalp burned, not from the chemicals alone, but from what felt like an unending fight between me and my own hair. I remember the discomfort, how even the slightest tug felt like too much. My head was so sensitive that I often joked (half-seriously) that I could feel a flake of air grazing my scalp.

With time, I grew to admire natural hair—other people’s natural hair, that is. Mine felt like a different story. I envied those who seemed to nurture their coils, those who styled their kinks and looked stunning. For me, caring for my hair always seemed like an exercise in futility. I didn’t want to “style” it; I just wanted it to be there, quietly existing without demanding too much from me. It seemed like I was always on the verge of giving up, relying on braids as my go-to, so I could avoid dealing with the natural texture underneath.

My relationship with my hair was complicated. As a child, I compared it constantly with my sister’s. Hers was longer, healthier, and—most frustratingly—obedient. She could create sleek ponytails, buns, French braids, and bangs effortlessly. Her hair moved the way she wanted it to, while mine refused to bend, curl, or slick in the same way. My hair had two modes: relaxed or what I called "the mushroom," a thick, rounded shape that seemed to defy any effort to look tamed. No matter how much relaxer was applied or how tight the blow-drying process was, my hair never achieved the slick, polished look I craved.

I wanted styles that weren’t exactly meant for 4C hair. Slicked-back ponies, French braids, or pigtails—all those styles I saw that didn’t flatter my hair type. Today, we have synthetic hair to help achieve some of those looks, but back then, my efforts to recreate them with my natural hair fell flat. It’s a bit like shopping for clothes that fit someone else’s body type, knowing they won’t work for yours but wanting to follow the trend anyway. I didn’t understand that I was working against my hair, not with it.

It took me time to realize that my hair wasn’t the problem—it was my approach. There’s a party for everyone, and the party I wanted wasn’t mine. It took cutting my hair, embracing its natural texture alongside my sister, and growing out of that desire to fit into a mold that was never built for me. And in doing so, I found peace.

I won’t pretend that every day is easy. There are still moments when I wish my hair behaved differently. But I’ve learned to appreciate it for what it is, not for what it isn’t. It took years to reach this point, to stop waging war against something so inherently me. Now, I’m learning to love it, to nurture it, and, most importantly, to stop fighting with what makes me me.

This crown I wear may be wild, but it’s mine. And finally, I’m starting to make peace with it.