Every year
It was a tradition
To aggressively
Press my curls
With 450 degrees
To make it straight.
I begged and plead
“It’s going to make
You look beautiful.”
I cried every time
As I held my ears down
And allowed my sideburns and
Forehead to be burned.
Why did society
Believe altering natural attributes
Was a good thing?
“Don’t you want to be beautiful?”
What if,
I already felt beautiful?
What if,
I was comfortable with every
twist and turn?
But this wasn’t the case.
I didn’t love my curls.
I would hide them in buns
Before my mother
Could say, “your hair is a mess.”
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