Welcome back to YA Cafe, where book lovers can gather and chat about teen literature. I’m your barista, along with Gabriela from iggi&gabi. Each Friday we pick from a menu of topics and share our thoughts on our respective blogs.

We’ve also got plans brewing for interviews, events and even some exciting giveaways, so stay tuned! Join the discussion by responding in the comments, on your own blogs or on twitter using the hash tag #yacafe.

Today’s Special: Teens and Body Image

First things first – the winner of our Eyes in the Mirror giveaway is…Kim! Congrats, girl! Shoot me an email at ghenetwrites(at)gmail(dot)com with your address and I’ll get it out to you.

For this week’s topic, I thought it might be fun to do something a little different and write about my own teen experience. I love reading blogs like Dear Teen Me and reminiscing about the good and bad moments of being a teen. It’s part of the reason why I love writing YA!

On Twitter this week, the hashtag #whatmakesmebeautiful has been going around. One of the things I believe makes me beautiful is my curly hair, but I haven’t always felt that way. When Gabi and I were in our MFA program together, our teen literature teacher had us write a couple of personal essays. One of them was on the theme of body image, so I’m going to share it with you. I’m warning you – it’s kind of long! But I hope you read it anyway.

I Am Not My Hair

As a baby, my hair was just another feature, like the beauty mark on my cheek or the birthmark on my shoulder. It was a trait that came from a mix of genetics from my African American, Haitian, Native American, and Greek ancestors. The halo of curls that went in all directions made me look cute and fit my wild personality at that age. But they could also be pulled back and forgotten about.

When I was old enough to go to school, I wore my hair in two braids. I rarely wore it out, except for special occasions and then most of the time it was straightened. I didn’t pay much attention to my hair, except for when my mom tried to untangle it after washing it and I’d scream and insist she was hurting me on purpose. My mom always combed it as gently as she could, but my hair was difficult to deal with.

When I started middle school and began doing my hair myself, I saw it as something more than just a characteristic of mine. I felt it defined my beauty. At that age, I was becoming independent and paid more attention to how I looked. I was a dedicated reader of teen fashion magazines, which made me think about my image, especially in comparison to the models on the pages and my peers. I bought clothes that fit the trends and started wearing makeup. I thought my curly hair was an important part of my image. I wanted to wear it loose, so I tried the products and hairstyles the magazines said were for my hair type, but never really were. Barely any of the tips worked, and instead of lustrous, defined curls, I usually ended up with a frizzy mess that I inevitably pulled back into a ponytail or bun.

One time I took my hair out of a ponytail was for my eighth grade yearbook photo. It was a spontaneous decision and I hadn’t realized how bad it looked. When I saw the picture in the yearbook, I was mortified. My hair looked dry and frizzy, and the curls were far from defined. My parents told me it looked fine and the picture was beautiful but I didn’t believe them. All I saw when I looked at the picture was my hair, and I thought it made me look ugly. I’d ruined the picture, and even now when I look at it, I can’t help but feel embarrassed for my eighth grade self. During that time, I was constantly frustrated with my hair. It was when my love-hate relationship with my curly hair began.

To understand what it’s like to have hair like mine, and its effect on me, you have to be familiar with the significance of hair in the African American community. Hair has been a defining factor in the image of African Americans ever since slavery, when light-skinned black women would straighten their hair to look white. Many black women, especially those who live and work in predominantly white environments, struggle with the image portrayed by the appearance of their hair. Dry, coarse and nappy hair is historically considered unfavorable, so most black women have their hair chemically straightened. I have a friend whose mother insisted she straighten her hair before a job interview, because she didn’t want her daughter to be judged by her hair and not get the job. Some women decide to keep their hair natural, whether in kinky curls, Afros or dreadlocks. In doing so, they express their individuality and self-acceptance, but they still have to deal with the fact that other people might judge them based on their hair and not their personality. When an African American woman’s natural hair is not judged, it’s usually because it defies the norm of black hair. The musician India Arie expresses this phenomenon in her song “I Am Not My Hair”:

“Good hair means curls and waves;

Bad hair means you look like a slave.”

My hair fits into the “good hair” category because it’s soft, long, and curly. Add that to my honey-colored complexion and many people don’t automatically believe I’m African American. They think I’m Hispanic.

There has always been a discrepancy between how I see my hair and how others–especially those in the black community–see it. When I was in middle and high school, I realized that my hair was different than most other black people around me. Because it was curly, they thought it was beautiful and were jealous over the fact that I don’t have to get it chemically straightened every few months or wear a swim cap in the pool. When I thought about it that way, I appreciated my hair and how in comparison it was easier to manage. But I always had trouble with my hair and felt it was a nuisance. The curls weren’t defined like I thought they should be, and I could never find the right hair products. Sometimes, I thought it would be easier to have hair that needed to be chemically straightened, because at least then it would consistently look nice. Having curly hair made me different than most other black people, and that isolated me from them.

Looking back at my high school years, there were several instances when my hair made me feel self-conscious about myself. One moment I remember distinctly was right before I started the ninth grade, when I went to get my hair cut at a black hair salon. The hairstylist didn’t know how to deal with my curly hair, so she straightened it before cutting it. The haircut looked nice when my hair was straight, but when I walked out of the salon with my mother, I started to cry because I realized it was too short. I’d wanted my hair to be a little longer than shoulder-length, but the woman at the salon cut it that length when it was straight. I knew when I washed my hair and my curls returned, they would be much shorter than I desired. Lo and behold, that was the case, and because my hair is so thick, it looked like an upside-down bowl of curls on top of my head. I hated it. The reason why I remember the haircut so well is because on the first day of ninth grade, when I had my ID photo taken, I wore my hair out. It was yet another picture that was ruined by my hair, and I didn’t wear my hair out again until it grew longer. I also didn’t show my ID photo to anyone who didn’t need to see it, and when I graduated, I threw it out.

There were times in middle and high school when I was proud of my hair, but those memories aren’t as clear in my mind. When I had a good hair day, I felt really good about myself. If my curls were bouncy and shiny like I wanted them to be, and especially if someone complimented me on them, they made me feel beautiful. On the other hand, when I didn’t like my hair, I didn’t like the rest of me either. I compared myself to my peers, I judged myself, and believed other people would think I was ugly because my hair looked bad. Because my hair was the first thing I saw when I looked at myself in a mirror, I thought others viewed me the same way. And since hair like mine was favored in the black community, I believed it was what made me beautiful.

Even now, I feel like the state of my hair greatly influences how I feel in a given day. My confidence level goes up when my hair looks the way I want it to, and I still feel somewhat insecure when my hair looks bad. But I’ve come to realize that beauty is relative and there isn’t just one definition. Even curly hair has a bunch of variations, and I’ve learned not to compare mine with others. Now I accept my hair as it is, with all of its imperfections. Though I still think my curly hair is a defining feature of my beauty, I know it’s only a piece of the puzzle. I’m not just beautiful when my hair is shiny and perfect looking. And if it isn’t perfect, I’m not automatically ugly. Simply put, I am not my hair.

If you made it this far, thanks for reading! Now tell me: what makes YOU beautiful? Don’t forget to hop on over to Gabi’s blog to read her post on this topic.