Beep! Beep! Beep!

Let’s do this.

I stumble into the bathroom and ponder. What to do with these curls? They have been pushing my boundaries for years and have besieged beauty during the summer. The humidity makes them wild.

Unleashing the braid that held them like a prison, I see they are weak. Crimpled. Unable to tighten up and become playful swirls.

The shower runs now, and time is running out. The steady stream is like a battle cry. Soon, my curls will be soaked, prime time for their attack. What is my defense?

Skip the shampoo. Experts say it sucks moisture.

Conditioner. Lots of it. Curls are thirsty terrors.

Argan oil. I will not succumb to frizz!

Holding gel. Thick and gooey, it will put my curls in a chokehold. They will not be able to move.

Finally, I will deliver the death blow. Scrunching shapes and brings out the corkscrew curls that are my trademark. As I squish, I imagine my mortal enemies whimpering: “NO! We are not meant to be tamed!”

Sorry Curls, but you have been tamed. Punishing you is a manifesto. It is a fiasco! I won’t hide you in a ponytail or a bun, but showcase your elegant crevasses in a way similar to a Greek goddess or a Siren.
I rule you.
At school, I flip them and wrap them around my finger; their springy O’s gain me compliments.
Oh? You love my hair you say? Why, thank you. Oh, yes, it is quite natural, but as a child my hair was straight. Odd, isn’t it? I only iron it on special occasions, but it takes an hour and a half to do so. I’m terribly sorry, I didn’t quite catch that? Do I love my hair?
The answer to that question would be an unarguable, resounding “Yes!”