Dove Loves Your Curls and You Should, Too.

Obviously as a gal with genetically out of control curly hair, I've seen and been told by a handful of people in the span of just this morning to watch Dove's newest self-love campaign since it's all about curls. And now? I'm going to push you to watch it because I'm a pusher. That's what I do. Not only that, but it's mainly about instilling self-confidence in little girls about having "different" hair from a very young age, which no one can be mad at. I battled with my curls for a long time; my sister can also attest to how much we despised our curls. They made us feel goofy, weird, and not nearly as pretty as the straight-haired girls in school. Every morning, our poor mother would both willingly and begrudgingly slather and spray on gel and hairspray to the tops of our hair, creating a rock hard, hair helmet that could probably better serve our troops in war.

I struggled and struggled, finally giving into the warm comfort of a straightening iron come 7th grade. Of course, it took me about a solid half-hour every morning to deal with this process and the results left a lot to be desired, proven by my lack of any and all male attention once I hit puberty:

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I know. It's horrible. But I didn't know any better. I was lost when it came to my hair -- battling my curls was impossible. WTF was I supposed to do with that mess? The only answer at the time was stripping it of its only unique feature by torturing my natural curls until they lay flat and frizzy against my skull. 

Then, the eve of my 8th grade graduation, I did something bad enough to piss my mom off to the extreme (literally can't remember what it was -- with me, it could've been an endless number of things). My punishment? NO STRAIGHTENER FOR GRADUATION. No, I'm not kidding. That was her punishment for me. Perhaps it was her plan all-along to get me to embrace my curls but guise it as pointless discipline. So, the night of my 8th grade graduation, there I sat, with a bushy, curly, confused ponytail:

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Hard to tell what with early 2000's camera technology, but the curly pony was back there, in full-force, just behind my black choker, charm bracelet, and strapless (SCANDAL!) BP dress. But it was okay. It really was. I didn't hate it as much as I thought I would; plus, my parent's gave me the "Billy Elliot" DVD as a graduation present, so the night couldn't've possibly gone better.

And after that, after the monumental moment of being prohibited from styling my hair the only way I had learned how, I began embracing my curls. It's true -- my mom's twisted method really worked. Suddenly, I was experimenting with mousses and gels until I found creams and never looked back. Come high school, there were even days I felt really pretty when it came to my curls and had my dad take awkward pictures of me, using our lush greenery in the backyard as a #nofilter backdrop:



Once I passed that initial "what do I do with my hands/hair?" phase, I truly fell in love with my hair. Yes, every single day I have no idea what it's going to do or look like. And yes, it causes me major anxiety around any sort of "event" (i.e. a wedding, a party, some sort of important function wherein pictures will be taken). But, besides all that, I love how unpredictable it is. I love how easy it is to "get ready" (apply leave-in conditioner, apply chosen hair cream, let dry, slap Moroccan Oil in to get crunch out. Party on, Garth). I love that it is capable of looking completely insane but somehow works. I've gotten totally used to it now and can't imagine dealing with any other type of hair. And the best part? It's a built-in accessory. No matter what else is going on with my face or outfit, I've got my hair. So that's a win.

Now, watch Dove's new "Love Your Curls" campaign and go spread the word of curls.



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