From the moment my hair reached about an inch off my baby head and twisted itself into the most perfect blonde spiral curl, my mother knew she was in for something special. Or exhausting. Or both.
My curls arrived early and made themselves known immediately—springy, stubborn, and completely uninterested in doing what other hair was doing. From the beginning, my hair was less “sweet baby wisps” and more “science experiment meets small rebellion.”
Little did I know that theme would follow me through much of my life.
For a while, my curls were celebrated. They matched my personality—chatty, energetic, and a little wild. People said they were cute. Manageable chaos. Acceptable chaos.
But somewhere around fifth or sixth grade, I started to notice something troubling: the other girls carried hairbrushes. They brushed their hair between classes. Their hair laid smooth and shiny against their shoulders, obedient and cooperative. They wore pigtails and braids that stayed where they were told.
My hair did not.
I couldn’t wear my hair like the other girls. And when I tried, it didn’t look the same. Mine was thick, coarse, frizzy, and determined to do its own thing. It was not smooth. It was not orderly. It was not impressed by trends.
By junior high, I was desperate to belong. So I talked my mom into letting me get the haircut of the 90s—the Jennifer Aniston “Friends” shag. She tried to talk me out of it. But remember: I was as stubborn as my curls.
The moment the scissors stopped, I knew I had made a terrible mistake.
Instead of effortless layers, I had what can only be described as a helmet. A very full, very curly helmet. In an era when curls were deeply uncool. Junior high students, being the compassionate souls they are, did not hold back.
“Nice hair, Ashley.”
“You have a ‘fro!”
“Why don’t you just straighten it?”
Straightening wasn’t really an option back then. The tools weren’t great, and neither was the technique. Every attempt made my hair—and the comments—worse. By the time junior high ended, my self-esteem had followed my hair into complete chaos.
Eventually, I gave up on trends and let my curls grow long. But I didn’t embrace them—I tolerated them. I avoided talking about my hair. Compliments hurt almost as much as criticism. It felt superficial, sure—but also deeply personal. I couldn’t change it. And I didn’t know how to belong with it.
Then I met my husband.
While we were dating, he said something that shifted everything. He told me to stop straightening my hair. Stop fighting it. “Your curls are unique,” he said. “God gave them to you. Why would you want to change what God gave you?”
That question landed somewhere deep.
Why was I trying so hard to fit into a world I wasn’t designed for? Why was I working overtime to hide something that was part of how I was created?
I never straightened my hair again.
Belonging can be beautiful—but it can also be exhausting when it requires us to become someone else. Too often, belonging is confused with blending in, sanding down edges, or hiding parts of ourselves to be accepted.
But Scripture tells a different story.
“I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.” (Psalm 139:14)
Not eventually acceptable. Not once improved. Wonderfully made—right now, curls and all.
As we age, the temptation to belong doesn’t go away. In many ways, it gets louder. Bodies change. Roles shift. Independence looks different. And the pressure to fit into someone else’s version of “normal” can feel overwhelming.
Abundant living isn’t about fitting a mold—it’s about being valued exactly as we are. True belonging doesn’t ask us to erase our stories, our identities, or our quirks. It invites us to bring them fully.
Or, as Romans 12:2 reminds us, “Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind.”
Sometimes transformation looks like letting your hair do what it was always meant to do.
Belonging doesn’t require perfection. It requires honesty. And the courage to let your curls be curls.