By Domonique Scott

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My hair has always been a hassle. My thick curls frizzed and tangled, bunched and poofed. It drove me crazy. I am mixed race, so I have been cursed with the thickness of Mexican hair and the thick curl of Black hair.
One day to finally slay the beast upon my head I visited a salon where I met an African woman. Her skin was dark yet sparkled like obsidian. She was strong and elegant, draped in a long gorgeous ruby red caftan dress. What I remember most was her hair. If I thought my hair was a poof, hers was an explosion. Twists and curls revolving around her scalp. She looked amazing.
“How can I help you, child?” the women asked me in a deep, heavily-accented voice.
I told her I had given up on my hair and if she could straighten it out I would be more than happy. She simply nodded and led me to the washing sink where she took out the hair tie that held my mess of a bun in place.
The water ran down warm and gentle about my scalp as the woman weaved her hands through my curls caressing them with conditioner. Humming she used coconut oils and her brushes to softly twist my curls and set them. Once finished the woman turned my chair to the mirror,
“Look upon yourself, child,” she said.
My curls sat luxuriously upon my shoulders, shiny and pronounced and bounced as I moved slightly.
I was beautiful.
The magical women told me that beauty comes in different forms and colors. Do not change who you are, embrace what makes you different and treasure it.

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