To be an eldest daughter is to balance the high-wire line between dutiful older sibling and non-consenting mother. I didn’t ask to comb my younger brother’s hair in the morning before the bus or to help him practice the alphabet before finishing my homework. I didn’t ask to cut his waffles—into perfect triangles, just as he liked—while my parents raced to work. I didn’t ask to drive him to baseball practice, waiting in the dusty parking lot until the sun set on the diamond. I didn’t ask to be born first or to care for another child just because I was a little less of a child.

I didn’t ask, but I also didn’t have to be asked. Coming from a middle-class family with two working parents, it was an unspoken absolute: I was the default parental stand-in. It’s a thankless job, but it’s far from uncommon. Compared to their younger siblings and eldest sons, older daughters bear significantly more responsibilities in the home. The phenomenon—and its long-term emotional effects—have been aptly, albeit unofficially, dubbed “eldest daughter syndrome.” We tend to grow up faster, to be more organized, direct, and people-pleasing. This is certainly true for me. But in all those years of semi-parenting a human being as a child myself, being an eldest daughter also forged a huge piece of my visual identity: my “eldest daughter air-dry.” 

What Is the Eldest Daughter Air-Dry?

When you’re responsible for grooming, feeding, and packing the bookbag of another person, there’s only so much time for the eldest daughter to invest in herself. Thus, she embraces the air-dry. Throughout my school years, I would arrive at homeroom with a mop of soaking-wet hair that would (eventually) dry out by third period. I flipped my head over in the bathtub, scrunched my waves with Aussie mousse, and rushed myself to the bus stop.

Today, with no children of my own and a little more time for reflection, it’s clear that my air-dried texture wasn’t just a hairstyle (or a lack thereof). It was a uniform, the physical manifestation of sacrificing precious girlhood time for the clock-watching efficiency of the eldest daughter. It also wasn’t unique to me: It was the hallmark of eldest daughters everywhere.

The Patron Saints of the Eldest Daughter Air-Dry

I saw it first on Julia Stiles in 10 Things I Hate About You, where Kat Stratford is tasked with the care and protection of her younger sister while attending the same high school. In every scene, her hair is down in untamed waves or thrown messily into a casual updo. It’s a stark contrast to her character’s younger sister, Bianca, who is continuously pictured with bouncy blowouts and meticulously placed barrettes. 

We see the same disparity between the hairstyles of Sally (Sandra Bullock) and Gillian Owens (Nicole Kidman) in Practical Magic. Whether bent over a spellbook or covering a shift at the family apothecary, Sally’s hair is always flipped haphazardly out of her eyeline or tucked behind her ear—because hair is an inconvenience when you’re cleaning up your little sister’s disaster. We even see it with the confident and self-expressive Zoey Johnson (Yara Shahidi) in Black-ish and Grown-ish,who increasingly embraces her natural texture as her character takes on more responsibilities and comes into her own. 

I could go on and on—Lana Condor’s ponytails and windswept locks in To All of the Boys I’ve Loved Before, or second-oldest daughters Saoirse Ronan and Keira Knightley in Little Women and Pride and Prejudice, respectively. The story has always been there: local woman carries the physical manifestation of her emotional trauma. But I’d argue it’s a badge of honor, not a scar.

My Eldest Daughter Air-Dry and Me

A part of me wishes I could roll the rom-com movie montage where I head to college, renounce the pain of eldest daughterhood, and finally learn to use a curling iron. But the truth is that even at age 30, I still embrace the same look today. There’s just one distinguishing factor: Today, it’s a choice. This is the hair I’ve always had, and to stay true to its integrity feels like moving forward with the burden of the eldest daughter that is inevitably a part of me. To change it would feel like trying—and failing—to erase it. 

I love my younger brother. I’m sad I missed out on some crests of girlhood because of his needs (like learning to style my hair and watching The O.C., to keep it light). But I’m happy, because of me, that he didn’t miss a thing. Both things can be true—my hair can drip with the low-lows and the high-highs that come with being an eldest daughter. 

Would it be better if I, a 30-year-old director-level editor, arrived at my professional office setting with dry hair? Sure. But that kind of sounds like people-pleasing, and I’ve made way too much progress in therapy for that.