5 days ago
17
My housemate has a special phrase for some of my old photos: “Ima’s whiteface era” – hair seared straight down the middle with brassy blond highlights.
Where I grew up, in a regional coastal town, the gold standard was sandy blond beach babe.
My fuzzy, dark Polynesian hair and mispronounced name – Sereima – didn’t fit the brief.
Aged four, I gave myself a curly micro fringe with kitchen scissors, hoping to emulate a preschool friend’s pin-straight bob.
At the ripe old age of 11, I saved every Christmas and birthday dollar to score an infomercial-famous Instyler.
Mum clicked her tongue, while the rest of the family complained about the scent of deep-fried hair.
I can still feel the humiliating sting of a blond year-eight girl loudly proclaiming my natural hair tied back “looked like a dog shit”. Conversely, squeals of “Oh my gaaawd you look so pretty, you look so much better” when I had flat-ironed locks.
It wasn’t until my early 20s, after moving to the city, that I began to reject that Porpoise Spit mentality.
I inherited my mane from matriarchs – my mum and aunties – whose curls weave through their hyena laughs whenever they get together. They always told me people paid to have hair like ours in the 80s. Why would I burn that away?
I took their cue on the “curly girl method” – a popular care routine designed to enhance natural curls – and was gifted curly hair products for my birthday. An aunty even bought me matching defining brushes.
I was surprised by the dormant ringlets springing to life as I hunched over the basin, squishing in conditioner to define each tendril, revealing a natural texture I didn’t even know I had.
My curls are thirsty girls. Instead of spending hours burning the life out of them, I now douse my head with water and scrunch in mousse and gel.
Look, mum, no split ends!
After air-drying or diffusing with a blow dryer, if I’m feeling fancy, I break the crunchy cast with oil to reveal shiny coils.
I once feared water and frizz, now I pursue hydration, flipping my head over to zhoosh volume around the crown.
In my sleep, I move like I’m exorcising demons. So I’m hunting for a secure bonnet to better preserve my locks, though a silk pillowcase and loose “pineapple” updo have proven useful.
Most mornings I still wake up looking like a freshly sucked mango seed.
Work days are a scramble. There’s usually not enough time to scrunch every strand into submission, so I chuck my hair into a bun to withstand my sweaty commute.
When I do have a good curl day, it’s a great icebreaker. A colleague noticed and recommended a trustworthy salon. Another dropped some product by my desk to try out. Curly community.
I’ve also learned to go easy on myself because my hair is ever-changing and subject to variables such as water quality, hormones and weather.
Curls are like springy halos framing beautiful faces passing by, and now I live for “the nod” I share with strangers who have the same spirally hair.
I’ll continue to live by Dolly Parton’s mantra: “The higher the hair, the closer to heaven.”
