Apparently, My Hair Has Opinions
Apparently, my hair has opinions. Strong ones. For years, I treated wavy-hair advice like an instruction manual. Wavy hair needs protein. Don’t wash it too often. Do this. Avoid that. Follow the routine. Trust the process.
My hair, apparently, did not receive the manual.
Honestly, for most of my life I felt like nobody else had my hair type. I would look at pictures of straight hair, wavy hair, curly hair, coarse hair, fine hair, high-porosity hair, low-porosity hair, and somehow none of it seemed quite right. I could post in hair groups, describe exactly what mine was doing, try the suggestions people gave me, and somehow end up right back where I started.
Even before I ever dyed it, I didn’t understand it.
Nobody else seemed to understand it either.
Eventually I decided that perhaps science had simply overlooked an important new category of human hair:
Type: Straw.
Not straight, not wavy, not curly.
Just… straw.
It was coarse. It tangled. It frizzed. It could somehow feel dry while simultaneously refusing to absorb water. I could stand underneath the shower and feel like the water was just politely bouncing off it.
Because I knew my hair was wavy, I followed a lot of advice aimed at wavy and curly hair, including the idea that it probably needed protein. So there was protein in the conditioner. Protein in treatments. Protein in styling products. Protein everywhere. Surely, if wavy hair likes protein, more protein would eventually convince my hair to stop behaving like roofing material.
It did not.
The Great Hair Reset
Eventually I decided to stop trying to fix everything at once. No complicated routine. No throwing five different products at it. No trying to force it into whatever category somebody on the internet said it belonged in. I went back to basics. Regular shampoo on the scalp. A protein-free conditioner every time I washed it. Detangle while the conditioner was actually in my hair instead of fighting with it dry. T-shirt instead of aggressively towel-drying it. Less touching while it dried.
And then I cut off a decent amount of the older, more processed ends.
The idea was basically: before I decide what my hair needs, perhaps I should find out what my hair actually does.
Novel concept.
And then things started getting weird in a good way. My hair started getting softer. It started separating more easily instead of immediately trying to become one enormous knot. The waves got stronger. Then some pieces started forming actual spirals.
One side of my head apparently decided that all of its curls should cooperate and travel in roughly the same direction, while the other side chose complete anarchy. During one shower, something happened that genuinely caught me off guard.
My hair soaked up the water.
Immediately.
The same hair that historically acted like water was an invasive species suddenly behaved like it hadn’t had a drink in a year. At that point I began to suspect that perhaps my hair had not, in fact, been requesting additional protein. Perhaps it had been filing a complaint.
The Other Rule I Broke
I had also been trying to stretch my washes to roughly every three days because that’s another thing you hear constantly when you have textured hair. Then, recently, day two rolled around and my hair was getting tangled enough that running my fingers through it wasn’t helping anymore. So I washed it, and it loved it.
Which led me to another deeply revolutionary conclusion:
I can wash my hair when it feels like it needs to be washed.
I know.
Groundbreaking.
Apparently the correct schedule for my hair might not be “every three days” or “every other day” or any other number somebody can print on a graphic. If it still feels soft, separated, and happy, leave it alone.
If it starts getting tangled, snaggy, coated, or generally begins behaving like an abandoned bird’s nest, wash it.
Listen to the hair.
Which feels incredibly obvious now that I say it out loud.
Exhibit A: Gravity Is Apparently Optional
The strongest evidence that my hair approves of its new treatment is currently located directly above my forehead. One bang has decided that gravity is a suggestion. Not only did this piece dry with considerably more curl than I’m used to seeing, it eventually began standing almost vertically off my head like I was auditioning for The Little Rascals. So naturally, it has been named Alfalfa Bang.
EXHIBIT A: GRAVITY IS APPARENTLY OPTIONAL.
I could probably wet it down and force it to behave, but at this point?
No.
It has earned this.
Maybe Hair Advice Should Be Advice
The funniest part of this whole thing is that I don’t think any of the advice I was given was necessarily ridiculous. Protein genuinely helps some people’s hair. Some people do better washing less frequently. Some hair loves heavy products. Some hates them. Some needs more structure. Some needs more moisture. Some wants to be finger-coiled into beautiful little ringlets.
And apparently some wants to impersonate straw for years before revealing that it had ringlet potential the entire time.
The problem was treating possible starting points like commandments. I know this lesson extremely well from keeping and breeding mice. Husbandry advice works the same way. Somebody finds something that works beautifully for their animals, and eventually “this works for me” quietly transforms into “this is how it must be done.”
Meanwhile the actual living creature in front of you may have completely different opinions. Apparently my hair would like to be included in that category.
So the current routine is less of a routine and more of an ongoing negotiation. Condition it. Stop protein-bombing it. Wash it when it asks.
Let it dry without constantly bothering it. Pay attention to what happens.
And, apparently, stop bullying it.
That may be the closest I have ever come to understanding my hair.
It only took several decades, a haircut, an accidental overnight T-shirt plop, numerous experiments, a minor identity crisis involving the invention of Type Straw, and one small section of hair rejecting the fundamental laws of physics.
Progress.
