The First Time I Loved My Hair—And Meant It

Not for the world. Not for a wedding. Just for me.

It didn’t happen on a stage.
Not at a shaadi.
Not when someone said “nice hair.”
And definitely not on one of those rare good hair days where everything magically aligns.

No.

The first time I truly loved my hair…
was on a lazy Sunday afternoon in my old cotton kurta.
No kajal. No filters. No expectations.

Just me.
My damp, unbrushed curls.
And the sudden realization that they looked like a memory.

A flashback came rushing in—

My nani’s warm hands smoothing coconut oil through my tangled childhood,
My mum pulling my hair into braids before school,
That aunt who always said, “Bas straighten karlo, you’ll look so smart.”
Years of hot irons, hair rebonding, and wedding parlour aunties brushing out my soul.

That day, none of it mattered.

There was no big event. No reason to impress.
Just curls… doing their thing.
Frizzy at the ends. Spiraled in places. Stubborn in others.
But soft. Real. Mine.

I ran my fingers through them—
Not to fix them.
But to feel them.

Moisture still lingering from a leave-in.
Gel giving it shape, not stiffness.
My curls falling on my shoulders like they were finally home.

That moment?
It wasn’t for Instagram.
It wasn’t a trend.
It was truth.

I saw myself the way I wish younger me had been seen.

Wild.
Wavy.
Worthy.
Enough.

That was the day I fell in love with my hair.

Not because someone else approved.
Not because it was perfect.
But because I stopped needing it to be anything else.

For every Indian curly girl reading this—
Your curls are cultural.
They’re sacred.
They’re softness and rebellion and beauty and history—twisting and twirling through generations.

You don’t need a better reason to love them.
Just… this one.
You.