The mirror told you a lie for a long time
You were probably seven or eight the first time someone ran a comb through your curls and sighed. Not a cruel sigh. Just the kind that meant: this is going to be work. The aunty at the parlour, the school photograph, the wedding where your mother oiled your hair flat and pinned it so tightly your scalp ached for two days, every occasion came with the same quiet instruction. Tame it. Your hair, in its natural state, was a problem that needed managing.
