The Weight of a Curl

With a fistful of frustration in one hand and a wide-tooth comb in the other, Violet stood before the mirror. The early light from her window spilled across the bathroom tiles, thin and reluctant, as if even the sun wasn’t ready to face another Monday. After last night’s pathetic twist-out, her coils were tight and defiant, framing her face like a crown she wasn’t sure she deserved. The voices she had grown up hearing—too nappy, too wild, too much—echoed with every tug at a knot. Each pull of the comb felt like an argument, each snap of a strand like surrender.

She stared at herself in the mirror as the clock ticked toward another week she wasn’t ready for, her reflection split between exhaustion and resolve. Her eyes lingered on her hairline, on the curls that refused to behave, on the small rebellion sprouting from her scalp. For a fleeting second, she wondered—again—if it was brave or just naïve to keep showing up as her complete, unfiltered self in a world that seemed to prefer her edited.

The interview was tomorrow. A final round for a writing position at a sleek publishing company downtown—the kind with exposed brick, polished concrete floors, and art pieces that didn’t make sense unless someone explained them. She had made it through the phone screen and the first Zoom call, both with her camera conveniently off, blaming “internet troubles” that were really just hair troubles. Now they wanted to meet her in person. To see her. All of her. And that, she realized, was what scared her most.

The blow dryer perched on the sink like a dare. The flat iron beside it was warming up, humming faintly—a reminder of every compromise she’d made before. It’s only hair, she told herself, even though she knew it wasn’t. It’s not that deep.But it was. It always was. She could easily press it straight, smooth it down, and wrap it into something more “professional.” She could tuck her edges with gel and reassurance, could look the part of someone who belonged. She knew what “presentable” meant. She knew what “put-together” looked like.

She also knew what it cost.

On the bed behind her lay her carefully chosen outfit: a beige blazer, a silky white top, black tailored pants. Not a single color out of place. Not a single detail that said too much. Each piece whispered restraint, intentional neutrality, a practiced invisibility. It was what she called her don’t-give-them-a-reason outfit—professional enough to impress, muted enough not to offend. Her hair, though, was another story. It didn’t take instructions well. It had its own language—one she was only just learning to love.

Violet reached for a curl and let it coil around her finger, springing back with stubborn pride. Her mother used to straighten her hair every Sunday night before school. The smell of hot grease and burnt ends filled their kitchen, blending with the sound of gospel radio humming in the background. Violet would sit on a stool, legs swinging, while her mother worked methodically through her hair, stretching, pressing, transforming. “I’m doing this so it’s easier for you,” her mom would say, as if ease and erasure were the same thing.

She used to believe that straight hair meant safety. That blending in meant peace. That smoothing her curls was a kind of protection—one that shielded her from side-eyes, whispers, and subtle smiles that never quite reached people’s eyes. But as she got older, that safety began to feel suffocating.

Growing up in a mostly white suburb outside of Indianapolis, Violet learned early that her reflection was a conversation she never agreed to have. In classrooms, her hair drew hands that wanted to touch it, questions that sounded like curiosity but landed like condescension. “How does it get like that?” “Can you wash it every day?” “Is that your real hair?” She smiled politely, laughed when she was supposed to, and swallowed her irritation whole. By middle school, she had mastered the art of hiding. Slick ponytails. Box braids. Sew-ins that weren’t “too long.” She became fluent in camouflage.

She remembered the day a teacher told her, after she’d gotten her first silk press, that she looked “more professional.” The compliment had felt like both a reward and a warning. She smiled back, but something inside her cracked—a quiet fracture that took years to name.

Her curls had always been political without her consent. They carried history, memory, rebellion. They carried her mother’s resilience, her grandmother’s prayers, and generations of women who never had the luxury of showing up “as they were.” The older she got, the more she realized her hair wasn’t just an accessory—it was a story. One that didn’t need permission to exist.

Still, the fear lingered. What if the interviewer didn’t see “confident” but “unruly”? What if they saw “strong” and read it as “angry”? What if the curls she loved made someone else uncomfortable?

Violet sighed, looking again at the flat iron. Its red light glowed steady, like a heartbeat. She reached over and turned it off. The silence that followed was heavy and honest.

Maybe they would see her hair and think unpolished. Maybe they would think distracted. Or maybe, just maybe, they would see her. All of her. Her history. Her defiance. Her softness. Her truth.

She couldn’t decide which possibility scared her more.

Still, she set the comb down, ran her fingers through her coils, and whispered, “You’re fine just like this.”
Her reflection stared back—tired, uncertain, but real.
And for the first time in a long time, that was enough.