Mom, dad, JJ, and I—related but consisting of contrasting textures growing from our heads. My dad’s hair is slowly fading like small black waves; each day uncovers more sand underneath. JJ’s coarse locks mix with persistent grays even at 18, symbolizing a look into his excelled lifestyle. My mom’s hair lies flat, organized like her office desk she visits Monday through Friday, and curled to obtain the texture I was blessed with. Most days I argue the right word is cursed.

My hair is thick, twisted, and tangled with frizzy flyaways. Starting in 7th grade, I spent two hours a day torturing it with heat. Steam produced as cries for help as a baby whines for it’s mother. I ignore the pleas. I wished it flowed over my back like water smooths down the edge of an umbrella after a spring shower. Instead, it displayed a nest constructed with brown and golden sticks, bending and cracking while spoiling appetites. Maturing produced acceptance. My hand, onced glued to a straightener, now is replaced with heavy conditioning cream; embracing the tight curls springing like a fountain to form a maze of hair. Today I would argue the right word is blessed.