How I learned to love my curls — Part 1
A story of self-acceptance
“What happened next was entirely my fault.
I woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of someone frantically screaming, "No, no, no!" in the dark. The wailing was coming from the hallway and getting closer and closer.
It wasn't unlike a horror movie.”
Trying to fit in
In my teens and early adolescence, my hairstyle was usually a choice between an army-style buzzcut and 90s Justin Timberlake-length hair. The primary purpose of keeping my hair short, shorter than "Justin-length", was for fear of looking too cute.
That was a problem, you see, looking cute. Being of short stature, living in the country with the tallest people in the world—living in the province with the tallest people of that country, even—made me the "cute boy." But instead, I wanted to be considered as a "tough guy" in the eyes of my peers and the girls I liked. I especially hated being cute during my primary school and early teen years, when the only attention I got from girls was being hugged by older girls all the time. (Unbeknownst to me at the time, cute, non-threatening guys were actually what many women were looking for instead of tough guys. But alas, that was a difficult lesson I had to unlearn in my early twenties.)
However, there is another more profound reason why I didn't let my hair grow to show off my curls. My siblings and I were the only kids in the village and our local school to have an immigrant background. Which caused us to be outcasts as such, primarily in school. This feeling that I didn’t belong was one of the main reasons, among being little, for me to defend myself. Not only to guard me against being picked on but also to defend against more hidden biases. I.e., I was always an inquisitive kid and loved to nerd out on things. Still, being curious and well-read was, for some reason, constantly a surprise to every teacher I met. (Always being underestimated, thus always needing to prove myself to be accepted, was like 90% of the reason I hated school.)
In any case, much of the things that caused me to not fit in were things I couldn't change, like my skin color, facial complexity, interests, or height. But I was able to change my hair! So I asked my mother to cut it short, or I straightened it with a gallon of hair gel myself. (For those of you with curls, you know how difficult that is!)
So I did everything to just "be normal." Everything to have people accept me, so I could accept myself.
One girly liked me curly
Fast forward to my early twenties, I met the love of my life (GG), who, from the start, always complimented me on my—at the time—short curls. After we became a couple, GG convinced me that I should allow my hair to grow longer.
(Interesting side-story: courting GG was a challenge, for I had to follow her to the other side of the planet! I talk more about our early relationship in the first half of my chat with Eyal on his Deep Dive podcast [spotify].)
This was the first time in my life that I let my hair grow down to my shoulders, which took a while. But there was one major problem, I didn't know how to deal with long, thick, curly hair. I still tried to straighten it all the time... I was still not accepting my curls as part of me. So in an attempt to get rid of my curls and at the same time play a prank on GG, I devised a plan. GG was out partying in town with the girls, so I had our place to myself to prepare.
I thought I'd be a funny guy and wrote what someone on Twitter would call a "shitpost." I took an envelope and on the outside I wrote, "I'm sorry dear..." I put one thick strand of my curls in the envelope and then threw away the rest of my curls—after completely taking all of it off with a clipper. I then taped the envelope containing the strand of curls on the front door, which was within our apartment complex's hallway, and went to bed.
What happened next was entirely my fault.
I was woken up in the middle of the night to someone frantically screaming, "No, no, no!" in the dark. The wailing was coming from the hallway and getting closer and closer.
It wasn't unlike a horror movie.
Of course, it was GG, coming home at 3 AM, slightly tipsy, having partied all night. GG, tearing open the door to our bedroom, stood as a dark shadow against the moonlit background of our hallway. "You're joking, Jibran!" she said. To which I didn't dare reply.
The silence took too long.
She jumped onto our bed—as fast as a tigress pouncing on its prey—and started clawing around, looking for my head to see if my hair was still there. To her dismay, she only felt stubble. My hair was all gone.
I'll leave out the tipsy tirade I got at that point, but let's just say me being an asshole was an understatement.
Only later did I realize I had made a mistake, and GG's anger came from disappointment. Disappointment in me not accepting my curls for what they are, a beautiful part of me. But I can now say with confidence that my wife planted a seed in my mind at that moment. The idea that I had to accept exactly that part of myself that I tried to "straighten out" so much over the years. But it would still take me many years before I would accept that part of myself.
Work, work
A few years later, I let my hair grow again because I realized I did kinda miss doing my hair in a bun. Also, I figured that it was a plus if GG was happy with my long curls. Happy wife equals happy life and all that.
But during that time, we also bought a fixer-upper. A house that needed almost everything broken down and rebuilt. So we started construction, doing everything ourselves, including design, planning, demolishing, plumbing, wiring, the whole shebang really. Anyone who has done this knows your hair gets messy and dirty every day. My thick curly hair was especially prone to collecting sand and dust. The sand, containing cement from all the work I did, was particularly nasty when combined with water when I showered. Everything stuck together, and to get rid of it, the only remedy was to slather a handful of creme in my hair while showering and then use a big comb to remove all the particles. But this “creme-combing” took me 15 minutes every single day. Aside from working a full-time job and constructing our house, that would just not do. So I said to GG, "I'm gonna take it all off." meaning my hair. And she said, "Please let me just take a little bit off and thin out your hair." To which I agreed.
But she took off an inch too much, which meant I couldn't create a bun to keep my hair out of my face, which was, other than using headdresses of different kinds, the only way I could keep my hair out of my face.
So I did a buzzcut again.
Then I didn't let my hair grow long for many years because I started working in the business/tech/startup space. Wanting to fit in with all the "successful" people—at least what I thought was success at that time—I kept my hair short and sharp to make me look "professional." I saw grandiose success in front of my eyes. Thinking, "see this Jibran, a short guy and coming from a poor and immigrant background, he will show the world what he can do!" (Narrator: “so he can finally feel accepted.”).
Together with a smart dress shirt, nice shoes, and a neatly trimmed beard, nothing could stop me. Or so I thought…
Hey, I hoped you liked reading this 1st part of my story on self-acceptance! Next Sunday (March 6th) I’m sending out part 2, which, after the 6th, you can also find by clicking the button below.
Next issue: How I learned to love my curls (part 2) / Saving a life, dark night of the soul, psychedelics, and a trip to paradise.
If you liked my personal story so far, I would be really grateful if you shared it!
Knowing many other folks have difficulty in accepting themselves or parts of themselves, both physical and mental, I wrote this to help inspire them to look inward. ❤️