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I am not my hair and my hair is not me

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When I was a little girl, my hair was straightened every other Sunday morning. I woke up extra early before church and sat in a chair in the middle of our kitchen while my mother heated our Kentucky Maid hot comb on the stove — why she despised flat irons I will never know.

The process took roughly two hours, and honestly, I loathed it. But I was so obsessed with having straight hair — I called it “good hair” — and since my mom refused to let me have it chemically straightened like she did, the dreaded hot comb was my only option.

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