When my daughter was 5—an age many parents will recognize as the peak of their children’s vulnerability to the Disney-industrial complex—she started asking me to straighten her beautiful curly hair. A girl in her Pre-K class had the sort of shiny cornsilk hair that is particularly appealing to young girls; a kind of hair my daughter ironically portmanteau’d into “belong” (blonde and long), and increasingly requested to emulate with each passing day.
“Your hair is beautiful the way it is, my love,” rolled out of my mouth with regularity, and I went about my days buying up little accoutrements that might support this thesis. An 18-by-24-inch poster of Diana Ross for her bedroom wall. Hot pink Denman brushes. Late ‘80s beaded hair ties from Goody, like the ones from my childhood, which slide swiftly out of straight hair but cling lovingly, assuringly, to textured hair.
