I was first introduced to the creamy crack by my mother when I was 8-years-old. I became addicted shortly thereafter.

I was not alone in my addiction, as many black women become hooked on the substance at an early age and never kick the habit. I wanted to stop, but the creamy crack gave me confidence and a sense of belonging. No longer did I feel like an outcast among my friends. Every other month I would go to my appointment, and leave eager to get my next fix.

“Creamy crack”, a term coined by comedian Chris Rock, refers to the substance used by many black females to straighten their hair. It is more commonly referred to as a perm or a relaxer, and is applied to a woman’s scalp and roots to chemically break the bonds of her naturally coarse hair. In other words, it can change your hair from this:

To this:

However, there is a catch.Upon application, creamy crack makes you feel as if someone threw a gallon of lava on your scalp. In fact, the substance’s active ingredient is sodium hydroxide, a caustic chemical that is also found in Drano.

Sodium hydroxide (not actual crack)

That did not matter to me. I was willing to endure ten minutes of seething pain and risk the possibility of a chemical burn if it meant being able to comb my hair without breaking the teeth of my comb.

Yet, that was not my only reason for wanting a relaxer. Deep down inside, having straight hair made me feel something I had never felt before: beautiful. I could flip my hair behind my shoulders like the other girls in my third grade class. I didn’t have to spend hours braiding it, or wear it in a tightly-gelled bun to prevent my curls from coming out of place. Finally I shared a similarity with the tall, slim models and actresses I saw on television. No longer was I considered the "nappy child". I was just like everybody else, and I felt UNSTOPPABLE.

But all good things must eventually come to an end, and they did. In eighth grade, my hair began to break, and each morning when I brushed it I would shed a tear for each clump that tumbled from my scalp and into the sink. My mother realized that the relaxer was the cause of this, and told me that I would have to stop getting one if I wanted to restore my hair. After a few months of stubbornness, I grudgingly agreed to refrain from using the creamy crack.

I went through a serious withdrawal period. I had to cut off even more of my hair to get rid of the split ends, and I entered high school with a strange bowl-shape cut:

To make matters worse, my curly natural hair was growing in, but the ends of my hair were still straight from years of applying the relaxer. Each time I washed my hair, I emerged from the shower looking like some sort of mad nuclear physicist. Worst of all, I fit in with my peers even less than I did in elementary school.

It was not until my senior year of high school that I managed to repair my hair. I often wonder what my teenage experience would have been had I not even started using a relaxer. My hair definitely would have been a lot healthier, even if I would have had to put in a few extra hours of work to maintain it. I would have felt greater satisfaction than the immediate gratification I received from applying a relaxer.

But more often, I am shocked at how my perception of attractiveness was shaped at such an early age. Even at 8-years-old, I knew I did not belong. I knew that African American females were not the epitome of beauty, and this was partially due to our coarse hair. It was unruly, messy, and not suitable for Hollywood or any aspect of life unless it had been tamed in some way.

It saddens me to think that I spent years trying to become something I simply was not, and another few years trying to amend not only my hair, but my broken self-esteem as well. It is also disheartening to know that there are other young women who have experienced the same pain of feeling unwelcome in a society that has such narrow beauty standards.

Even now, six years clean from the creamy crack, I still struggle with the way my hair looks. I wear it in twists to protect my natural hair, and that causes me to stick out among my peers and reminds me each day that I am not the pinnacle of beauty. You may consider me vain for dwelling on this minor aspect of my appearance, but call me the next time your hairstyle earns you an uncomfortable glance at the grocery store.

There are times when I long for straight hair because I know that will relax everyone around me. I yearn to be judged by my character rather than the way I look, but I know that is a nearly impossible feat.

But I am slowly learning that I cannot cater to everyone, since most of the time outsiders do not have a clue.