Since I can remember, I’ve been envious of my big sister, Lauren. She’s beautiful, athletic, and funny, and (for the most part) has perfectly smooth, straight blonde hair. All throughout my awkward middle school years, I was known by my guy friends as the girl with the “hot sister,” and not much changed when I entered high school or even got my braces off.

We shared a room for much of our lives and when we got ready in the morning together, she would often go to school with her hair soaking wet, just to have it dry effortlessly, perfect by first period. I, however, would ride in the backseat, pulling at my curls, slicking my mousy, frizzy tresses into the tightest ponytail possible.

When I finally discovered the magical device known as a hair straightener, I was hooked. I would wake up hours before class to wash, dry, and fry my hair to a perfect, straight, crisp. I couldn’t fathom the idea of going out in public without straight hair. My naturally late tendency got even worse. Rain was my enemy and humidity was the devil. Some days, I would straighten my hair right before school and then first thing when I got home – just to make sure no kinks went untouched.

My parents despised it. My mother, a victim of those tragic '60s perms, warned me of the detrimental effects heat can have on hair, especially when you’re young. My dad begged me to embrace my curls, constantly telling me people value authentic and natural looks. I shrugged them off as my hair was finally long, blonde (thanks to hours in the hair salon) and resembled my sister's.

As I entered high school, my obsession with perfect hair only worsened. It stemmed into perfect makeup, perfect clothes, and a perfect workout routine. I spent hours and hundreds of dollars on it all. From the newest hair dryer to the latest heat-sealing products, ‘perfect’ did not come cheap.

I refuse to say ‘the media’ or societal pressures encouraged my obsession. This was all me. I, Madeleine, needed something I did not, and would never, have. I, myself, hated something that was a part of my biological being. I spent most of my life trying to get rid of something that made me special, something that made me beautiful. I convinced myself no guy likes big curly hair. I was sold on the idea that true beauty came from sleekness, some kind of artificial organization. This wasn’t the big bad world full of evil fashion magazines telling me this; this was my own crippling lack of confidence.

And then something strange happened. I entered Mizzou with long, glossy blonde hair and I was finally ‘happy’ with my appearance. I had no problem with the hours I spent achieving my look and reveled in the superficial compliments I received. But as my first year ended, I noticed something weird one morning after getting out of the shower. My hair seemed … shorter. Brassier. It laid now lifeless and brittle on the ends.

I panicked. What could have happened? These golden locks now shone copper and dry. No amount of conditioner or heat would make it look like it once did. I searched online for any answers I could find. But the problem was obvious. All that time spent under a straightener had caught up to me. That, combined with the poor quality of water in Columbia, had destroyed my hair. It was literally falling out of my head and parts were snapping at shoulder length. Suddenly, instead of hours searching for the right heating and smoothing tools, I had to spend hours finding the right protectants, restorative treatments, and repairing serums. I now treat my hair like a newborn baby, carefully and delicately. Any amount of stress to my hair shows, and it’s my own fault.

I didn’t write this so you would feel bad for me, I did this to myself. I let myself believe that something so unique was a flaw. And I fear I am not the only one.

When I moved to Australia on a semester exchange, I realized my curls are absolutely perfect the way they are. Curly hair is even valued in many cultures! As I try to mend the nearly irreversible damage I’ve caused my locks, I’ve learned that my imperfections are what make me me. Not only have I saved hours in front of the mirror, but also hours in mental distress. Little did I know that leaving my hair alone could actually change my outlook on myself and revolutionize what I consider ‘beautiful.’

So whether it’s your wide hips, that tiny gap between your teeth, or big frizzy hair like me, I desperately encourage you to embrace it. There are so many great resources encouraging self-love and body-acceptance around the world nowadays, but in reality, no one can convince you of anything. To accept yourself starts with yourself. It takes a complete reworking and revaluation of your mind. It wont be easy, and it’s going to take some time, but I can’t stress enough that it is absolutely necessary. You are beautiful, and you got this.

To my gorgeous sister Lauren, I now realize it’s not your hair that makes you so stunning, it’s your confidence. Now, instead of trying to mimic your looks, I hope to one day carry myself as beautifully as you do.