When Pretty Hurts

I didn’t just damage my hair.

I damaged a piece of myself.

And the wild thing is… I didn’t do it out of hate. I did it because I was chasing something I thought would finally make me feel beautiful.

I sat in that chair believing straight hair would make me look “polished,” “professional,” “put together.” I thought maybe—just maybe—it would make me feel worthy. Seen. Valid.

I thought I was choosing confidence…
But instead, I chose pain.

Because the moment that chemical touched my scalp, I felt something deeper than burning. I felt a warning in my spirit.

And when the sores came…
When the matting started…
When clumps of hair showed up in my hands…
When I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself…

Something in me broke.

Not just my hair.

My heart.
My identity.
My trust in myself.

People think bad hair experiences are “just hair.”
But when “pretty” hurts you… it’s not just physical.
It’s emotional.
It’s spiritual.
It’s ancestral.

And I remember thinking:

“Why did I do this to myself?
Why wasn’t I enough the way I already was?”

For a moment… I wanted to disappear.
Not because my hair was damaged—
but because I felt like I had betrayed the version of me that was already beautiful.

—

The lie of “pretty”

People think relaxers, flat irons, wigs, weaves are just “style.”
But for so many of us—it’s not style.

It’s survival.

From the time we were little girls, the world taught us something dangerous:

“Your natural hair is unprofessional.
Your curls are messy.
Your coils are too much.
Your kink is a problem to be fixed.”

They didn’t always say it out loud. They said it in the way teachers touched our braids like exhibits. In the way TV only showed straight and silky as “beautiful.” In the way our moms said, “You need to look presentable,” right before a hot comb kissed our scalp.

We absorbed it:

Straight hair = success.
Straight hair = acceptance.
Straight hair = safety.
Straight hair = love.

So when I straightened my hair… I wasn’t just changing my look.
I was trying to be what the world told me I had to be to belong.

That’s the lie of “pretty”: it says change yourself to be lovable.

And the most painful part?
We believed it.

Not because we were shallow—
but because we were conditioned.

We weren’t “trying to be something else.”
We were trying to survive in a world built on something else.

When I finally said yes to that relaxer, I didn’t realize I was saying no to a part of my soul.

That’s why it hurt so deep.
Not just the burn on my scalp—
The burn on my identity.

—

The pain beneath the pain

People think a bad hair experience is just “damage.”
Just “breakage.”
“It’ll grow back.”

But what happens when the pain is deeper than the strands?

What happens when you don’t just lose HAIR…
You lose a PIECE OF YOURSELF?

Nobody talks about that part—the silent grief, the shame, the anger at yourself.
The question that keeps punching your chest:

“Why didn’t I love myself enough to protect me?”

I wasn’t just mad at the stylist.
I was mad at me.

Because deep down, I knew my curls were fragile.
I knew my scalp was sensitive.
I knew chemicals were risky.
I knew my natural hair was sacred.

And I still said yes.

That “yes” haunted me.

It felt like I betrayed my younger self—the little girl with curls reaching for the sun… the girl who was born free.

When I saw the sores on my scalp…
Felt the texture changing…
Watched the shedding…
Realized my crown was breaking…

I broke too.

I cried.
I isolated.
I tucked myself away.

And I kept asking:

“How did I forget who I was?”
“Why did I think I had to change my hair to be beautiful?”
“Why wasn’t my natural self enough for me?”

That wasn’t vanity.
That was identity.

I wasn’t just losing hair.
I was mourning my relationship with myself.

—

I’m not going to pretend I’ve fully healed yet.

I still feel ashamed.
I still look in the mirror and think,
“What did I do to myself?”

I still cry over it.

In fact… I just cried.
And I probably will keep crying…
until I see her authentic form come back.

Until I see Ang again.
Until I see a real curl.
Until I see her coils rising like they used to.

Because to me, those coils aren’t just hair…
They are proof that I am still in there.