Growing up, I hated my curls.
They were temperamental, difficult and unruly.
My feelings about my hair were compounded by the fact that I had two sisters with bone-straight blond hair.
And then there was me.
Tumble-haired, curly, wild and unyielding, my hair refused to be tamed. I spent most of my time in braids and ponytails, wishing I could wear it down and swinging like my sisters could.
It wasn’t easy growing up as the younger sister to two blond bombshells.
Especially when you looked nothing like them.
Humidity? Kapow – you’ve got hair with ‘tude.
Wind? You’ve got tangles up the wazoo.
To this day, I wear it layered, use expensive products to manage it, and fight with it in summertime.
Then, I caught a view of something recently that completely changed how I feel:
And as I listened to her mother, complain about this beautiful child’s gorgeous mane and how hard it was for her to manage, something in me shifted.
It occurred to me then that there was a reason I was given all that I was: I believe I was given these crazy curls to help a precious little someone understand that she’s absolutely perfect just the way God made her.
If I refuse to honor what He gave to me, how can I hope to foster self-acceptance in her?
I know one thing for sure: she’ll always have an ally in her Nana, who knows a thing or two about curls.
And, just because her little face makes me smile, here’s a shot of wee MJ from the front:
Is there something about yourself that you’ve struggled to accept?