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true beauty lies not in conforming to others’ expectations, but in courageously being herself, letting her own light shine in her own world.
At 6:30 a.m. in Brooklyn, New York, just as the subway roared past her window, Leia sat at her bathroom vanity, sighing at herself in the mirror. Fifteen years old, her deep brown skin glowed softly under the warm light, but her naturally tight curls were like a rebellious cloud, defying all attempts to straighten them.
“Leia, you’re going to be late if you don’t leave!” her mother called from the kitchen, the sizzling sound of an omelet frying in her hand wafting through the crack in the door. Leia gritted her teeth, squeezed a generous dollop of coconut-scented conditioner into her palm, and worked it into her hair, little by little. The curls felt rough and stubborn as her fingertips ran through them, just like the feeling she’d always had when trying to straighten them. Last week, she’d saved up three months’ worth of pocket money and secretly gone to the hairdresser for a straightening treatment. As her straight hair fell to her shoulders, she smiled at herself in the mirror for a long time—finally, she could have smooth, wind-blown hair like the white girls at school.
But this joy only lasted three days. The rainy season in New York arrived suddenly, and after a light rain, her hair, as if by magic, slowly transformed from straight strands back into curly strands, with the ends sticking up in a mess.
From then on, Leia’s dressing table was filled with a variety of hair tools: straightening irons, curling tongs, hairspray, and even braiding ties her mother bought from a small shop in the black neighborhood. Every morning, she spent forty minutes styling her hair—first using a straightening iron to straighten it, then spraying it with a thick layer of hairspray. But even then, sweat would still cause it to frizz. One time, while running during gym class, her hair, damp with sweat, regained its original curls. The gym teacher smiled and said, “Leia, your hair is so lively, like little springs.” But she felt that smile was a teasing. She ran to the shade of a tree in the corner of the playground, buried her head in her knees, and secretly wiped away tears.
She began to envy Zoe, a Black girl in her class. Zoe always wore beautiful African braids with colorful beads tied at the ends. The beads jingled as she walked, like a lively song. During lunch break one day, Leia saw Zoe braiding her hair in the back of the classroom and couldn’t help but walk over to ask, “Why is your hair so beautiful? Does it hurt?” Zoe smiled and looked up, the braiding rope in her hand dancing nimbly between her fingertips. “It hurts a little at first, but you get used to it. My grandma said our curly hair is a gift from God, and braiding it is a way to cherish that gift.”
Leia watched Zoe skillfully divide a lock of hair into three strands and braid them together, her eyes filled with envy. Zoe saw what she was thinking and took her hand, saying, “Would you like me to braid your hair?” Leia hesitated, then nodded. As Zoe’s fingertips gently threaded through her curls, weaving them into tiny braids, Leia suddenly realized that her own curls could be so beautiful. Zoe even tied two small silver beads to the ends of her braids, “So you can hear them when you walk.”
That afternoon, Leia was walking home with her schoolbag on her back. Sunlight filtered through the leaves onto her braids, and the silver beads reflected a subtle gleam. A passing elderly woman smiled and said to her, “Girl, your braids are so beautiful, like little flowers on a meadow.” For the first time, Leia didn’t shy away from someone’s gaze. Instead, she smiled and said, “Thank you.”
That evening, Leia looked in the mirror and gently touched her braids. The touch from her fingertips was no longer rough and stubborn, but a solid warmth. She suddenly realized that she had been trying to make her hair look like what others liked, forgetting that this very curl was her unique signature. Just like New York’s diverse culture, the smooth, straight hair of a white girl is beautiful, and the tight, curly hair of a Black girl is equally dazzling.
From then on, Leia stopped obsessing over straightening her hair. She learned from Zoe how to braid her hair in various ways, sometimes simple three-strand braids, sometimes complex cornrows, and occasionally even weaving colorful ribbons into her braids. She still spent a long time styling her hair every morning, but it was no longer to please others, but to appreciate her own beauty.
One morning, her mother saw her braiding her hair and said with a smile, “Our Leia has finally found a hairstyle that suits her.” Leia looked up and smiled at herself in the mirror. Later, to save her styling time, her mother bought her a Burmese curly wig from the glueless wigs collection. It took her only a minute to put it on. The bright New York morning light filtered through the window, casting a radiant glow on her tight curls, making them appear especially soft and gentle. She knew that people might still criticize her hairstyle, but she would never let those comments bother her again—for she finally understood that true beauty lies not in conforming to others’ expectations, but in courageously being herself, letting her own light shine in her own world.
Leia skipped down the subway steps that morning, the silver beads on her braids tinkling with each step. When she walked into class, a few classmates glanced over—some with curiosity, others with smiles. Zoe waved at her, and Leia waved back confidently, no longer hunching her shoulders to hide her hair. During recess, a girl she’d never talked to before approached and said, “Your braids are awesome! Can you teach me how to do that someday?” Leia’s heart felt light, like the sunlight streaming through the classroom windows. After school, she stopped by the bodega near her house. The cashier, who’d never paid her much attention before, nodded and said, “Nice braids, kiddo.” Leia grinned, grabbing her milk. That night, she took off the wig and ran her fingers through her natural curls, feeling no frustration—only fondness. She knew this was just the start: from now on, her hair would be a celebration, not a struggle, and every curl would tell the story of a girl who’d learned to love herself, exactly as she was.
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