Pressed

 350 degrees somehow isn't hot enough to burn my hair straight, so I turn the three-year-old flat iron that I got for Christmas up to 450—slowly rising in heat levels on my wooden desk, eager to subdue the frazzled waves in my hair. I long to run my fingers through the silky, smooth strands without matted tangles, wishing to achieve this worldwide beauty standard. 

When I was younger, my mother refused every opportunity to go swimming and wet her hair. Consumed with curiosity, I would plead determinedly for her to swim with me, but nothing worked to convince her not to care about ruining a blowout. I never could quite understand the big deal; who cared if her hair looked imperfect, or better yet, who cared if it looked perfect? I wish, I wish this carless feeling had remained with me for longer.

On Christmas morning three years ago, I unwrapped a Dry Bar flatiron. Engrossed by the complexity of this bright yellow tool, I straightened my hair with my new present for the first day back after winter break. During my classes, I was gently adjusting my hair at every moment, feeling the softness of the conditioned texture. Every morning, I would routinely wake up thirty minutes early to achieve my desired look, pressing sections quickly, with the smell of smoke and burnt hair consuming the bathroom air. But I longed for untangled, luscious hair and felt it was worth the time and effort. My mother eagerly noticed my fondness for the stick-straight style and even offered to book hair appointments or help me. We were able to bond over this shared struggle of maintaining perfection, despite our vastly different ages. However, I’m sure it would have been more fun playing in the ocean or the pool with my mother, than discussing hair products.  

I wish I could say I still embraced my curly hair wholeheartedly after receiving the gift, but I was obsessed with an alternate style. Still, I was left constantly researching each morning. I watched, enchanted, as stylists used new techniques with the same product I had sitting at home. These commercials prodded me ceaselessly with the reminder that I remained in control over my appearance to others. Although I worried about the damage I could be doing to my hair, I realized I was not the only girl who faced this issue. Many of my friends consistently straightened their hair for school and no longer just for an important family gathering. My grandmother even mentioned that when she was my age, she would lay her hair on an ironing board and have someone press her with the household appliance. It seemed it wasn’t abnormal for a little girl to desire to change a part of her body. 

The straightening iron became the number one item on a packing list, a commonly asked-for present, and a beloved beauty product to my friends and I. I began to understand this was the sacrifice you made for how you wanted to look. And suddenly I became that girl who sat on the dock of the lake that June afternoon, refusing to do anything but dip my feet in. I longed to submerge myself beneath the lake water through the blistering heat, wishing to not feel excluded from the excitement.

Julia Fox