I was 13 when I realised that the ends of my hair curled up. That was when I had taken a shot at growing my hair. Till then I had a cute mushroom/ boy/ bob cut with the hair at the end of my neck cropped close with an electric razor. When estrogen finally kicked in, I took the life changing decision of letting my hair grow. 
Till I was in school, the responsibility of doing my hair was still my mother's. In the first year of the experiment, the wily tresses were tamed with tic - tacs and bob pins. As they grew longer, she tugged, pulled and combed my hair with a fine toothed comb till they were always firmly tied at the middle of the back of my head in a ponytail. The ponytail was so tightly bound with 4 folds of a scrunchie that I still blame my mother's genes and her combing my hair for my broad forehead. In college, my mom left me to fend for my hair myself. The freedom did not suit me well. It was like my head had a life of its own! They smirked at rubber bands, scorned clutchers, became a maze for tic - tacs and hated being combed. My arms got tired trying to comb them. And hence began my love - hate relationship with my curly head.
Many women have aww-ed and aah-ed at my hair exaggerating that they'll trade their silky straight shiny hair with my wild curls any day. I could never believe them. Almost all the hairdressers have tch - tch-ed at the state of my head reprimanding me for the discriminating manner I treated my hair. I have warned people for not being overtly curious and trying to pass their hands through the curls. I do not take any guarantee of untangling their hands from my hair later. Bees and flies, rubber bands and pins, tinfoil balls and little toys of children have all been lost here somewhere in my head to be never seen again.
It's not like my hair act mean to others only. The don't like me much either. Sometimes overnight oiling followed by a vigourous shampooing and almost an hour of conditioning followed by half a bottle of expensive serum, all done for a special occasion, would result in a perfect little messy nest for the birds of the world. They are very moody my hair. When I am least expecting it, they'll emulate Preity Zinta's springy curls of Dil Chahta Hai. But that's very rare.
But overtime, me and my hair, we have agreed on a cordial relationship. Because they don't like being combed, I don't bother any more. But they deal nicely with the insistent probing of my combing efforts when I do wash them twice or thrice a week. I have also succeeded in 60% success rate with them while going out. All I have to do is wash them and tie them up wet in a bun. And when I open them, voila! I have a party - goer look ready.
But I'd rather not talk about the disastrous outcomes of the remaining 40%. (You can have a look below)
Well, there are certainly some drawbacks like I can't ever, ever, experiment with haircuts. No short hair, no bangs. I have a pretty regular hair style that I can't do much to change unless I decide to splurge on salons every alternate day. But that's OK. The occasional compliments, especially those from total strangers in my society, in the mall or in the metro balance things out.
I'd be candid and admit that I do love the fact that my hair are different, independent and wild! They sort of define me. I don't think my personality would have been the same if I had the same boring straight hair. Hence, I refuse to get them chemically treated and straightened or smoothened or whatever term is In in the market these days.
Living with curls is a bitter - sweet experiment that I have come to love!
