Here’s my story.

When I was in eighth grade, I emerged from my awkward, pumpkinesque phase. My best friend was the “hot girl” and I was the friend with the fro (type 3c). It hurt, I wanted to be noticed by anyone, even the weird kid who smelled his shoes during social studies. So I invested in the most powerful straightener I could afford and devoted that entire day to de-crimping my curls. That night I showed up at the high-school’s football game and literally was drowned in compliments. For the first time ever, I heard my name and “hot” used in the same sentence without a negative thrown in.
From then on, I associated the burnt hair smell with beauty and the beloved straightener rarely left my hand.
I felt amazing, but my hair seriously paid. At first the curls loosened, which I liked. But the more I straightened, the limper they got until I could blow-dry my hair straight (something I’d never imagined possible).
During this time boys were giving me superfluous amounts of attention for my looks. Three even made a bet on who could get into my pants first. One of them told me about it, hoping it would give him an advantage. I was 14 and disgusted. I spiraled into depression, all because of my hair. No one understood that.
So I tried to give up my straightener addiction, thinking it was what caused my unhappiness. But hair grows slowly, and with the depression I put on weight. Boys stopped paying attention and I felt even worse.
With my best friend and God’s grace, I struggled into sanity. But my self esteem was still low, and my hair still mid-phase. So I straightened, and immediately came the male attention. My whole freshman year of highschool was devoted to finding myself. And I realized at the end, that my hair, naturally, is a defining part of who I am. I again have in-between hair and am impatiently awaiting fresh, bouncy, undeniably Catherine curls.