I grew up believing that my hair wasn’t beautiful. By the age of ten, I was already getting blowouts regularly, learning early that my natural curls were something to tame. At eighteen, when I began going to job interviews, I was told my curls weren’t “professional”, that straight hair would give me a better shot at being hired, at being taken seriously. So I straightened my hair, hoping to be accepted into a culture that would pay me what I was told I was worth, at the time, not much.

At twenty-one, I went to my eldest cousin’s wedding. I’ll never forget being told I should straighten my hair because curly hair wasn’t “elegant.” So I did. I flattened my curls because, of course, God forbid I call more attention than the bride. That moment, like so many others, reinforced what I had always been told: shrink yourself, fit the mold, be anything but who you are if you want to be accepted.

Over the years, I experimented with haircuts, styles, even color (I went silver platinum for a minute, which, to be honest, I kind of rocked). But deep down, none of it felt honest. The real reason I was insecure wasn’t just about hair, it was that I didn’t yet know the woman I was supposed to become. I wasn’t ready for her.

Then the pandemic happened, and with no office to show up to, I decided to take a break from the straightener and curling wand. But my curls? They didn’t bounce back. They were tired, brittle, barely there. I scrunched, I gelled, I waited. Nothing. Eventually, I made the decision to chop it all off and start again.

 

Looking back, I honestly don’t know how I found the courage to do that. But I did. And it wasn’t easy. Every time I looked in the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. I would criticize my reflection. The day I caught myself saying, “I don’t want to go out, I look ‘cafre’.” There, something shifted. That word. That narrative. That judgment. It wasn’t even mine. I had inherited it. And right then, I asked myself: “Who said this hair is ugly?” “Maybe it’s up to me to change that story.” “Maybe this hair is beautiful. Maybe curly hair is beautiful, no matter what stage it’s in.”

So I committed. But again, it wasn’t easy.

I asked my friends and family for support. I told them about the journey I was on and asked them to be mindful, to leave behind the language we grew up with, "pelo malo" and all the cultural weight it carries. I wanted to push through the conditioning, to do something radical: to love what I was told to hide.

Then, one day, after yet another attempt to explain my process, my dad told me to “do something about my hair because I 'looked ugly’. I remember sitting there, absorbing the sting of his words. And at that moment, I had a choice: give up and go back to straightening my hair… or prove to myself, and to him, that this hair is beautiful. That I am beautiful like this, too.

So I picked up my things and left. I didn’t say a word. That was the last thing he ever said to me. And in the car, through tears and reflection, I thought: How many women have gone through this? It can’t just be me. That was the first spark of what would later become Horae of Spring.

I wanted to create something that was the complete opposite of everything we were taught. A brand that felt elegant, soft, powerful, like us. I wanted to build something timeless, something eternal. A brand that could heal me, and the many women who have had to shrink their curls, their voices, and their identities in order to belong.

Instead of trying to fit into a world that never really accepted us, I decided to build my own. A world where curls are not just tolerated, they’re celebrated, honored, adored. A world where every curly-haired woman can feel like a goddess in her own skin.

That is the world of Horae of Spring. And this is where the story begins.