I've been meaning to write the story of my hair. It has a history of its own now. And my decision to document it is not aneffort to romanticize my natural journey as is trendy to do now, but to use itas an example of a lesson I recently learned and as a motif in my transition toadulthood.
My hair regimen used to be a complex process. First stop, the beauty supply. It appears modest from the outside, but onceyou enter the little white door, bell ringing at your arrival, you see hairhung from floor to ceiling. Any type ofhair you could dream of donning: long, straight, wavy, curly, blue, green,yellow, blonde, wigs, tracks, pieces, bangs, ponytails, they're all there. As a regular, the decision doesn't overwhelmme. Routinely, I request "Threepacks of 'Tasha Deep Wave', two of them in a number two and the third, a number2 and 33 mix, please". Intranslation, two packs in deep brown, my "natural" hair color, andthe third pack, deep brown with honey blonde highlights. The beauty supply has a language all it'sown. If you're familiar, then you knowwhat the terms Yaki, Remi, Wet n' Wavy, and synthetic refer to. You know the number that represents your realhair color and that which represents the hair color you wear most. I already know the price of this style.$34.00 altogether. My requested packs ofhair are retrieved and tossed into a black plastic bag. I once concluded that they chose thediscreetness of a black plastic bag so as to stay true to the illusion. Who would want the public to see their hairin a package before its made it to their head perpetrating a glamorousfraud? Next stop, the beauty shop.
My beautician submerges her fingertips through the jungle ofmy new growth until reaching my scalp. "Ooh wee," she utters in reaction to the thick crop of texturethat has interrupted my relaxed tresses. In an instant, she's slicing through the treachery of my roots with aparting comb and slathering a cold creamy relaxer into them. She smoothes it through until my whole scalpis covered and the familiar chemical rids my hair of any unwantedkinkiness. I then transition to the sinkwhere she rinses out the relaxer, fingers now slipping effortlessly through myflat, thin strands. By the end, I emergefrom the sink with my hair slicked straight back on my scalp, which tingles nowin reaction to the process. At thispoint, about 95% of my hair is thrust into a modest bun with only a portion inthe front left free. This is for thesole purpose of blending my natural hairline with the weave. After a spell under the dryer, I'm preparedfor an hour in the salon chair. Mybeautician retrieves the tracks of hair from the first package holding themfrom end to end like strings of garland and begins glueing them to my head. By the end of this process, the salon chairtwists me toward the mirror to reveal me with a head of full, silky,shoulder-brushing, perfectly spiraled curls that could pass for my own. Scents of hair glue, gel, and spray stilllinger in the air as I peer into the mirror satisfied, feeling beautiful.
This style was my signature look. I used to go to the store, spend money,chemically straighten my hair, sit under a dryer for an hour, and sit in achair for another hour getting things glued onto my head to achieve a head fullof beautiful curls. Imagine my excitementwhen it FINALLY dawned on me that I could achieve them just by growing themfrom my very own scalp.
The halfway mark of my undergraduate career was perfecttiming for me to start rocking my natural hair. I would soon be 21 years old and transitioning into legaladulthood. A college setting was anappropriate space for me to experiment with style and color without concerningmyself with the expectations of a job environment. So I put together a collage of photos thatinspired the style I wanted to achieve and made my appointment at the salon inNew York. I went alone. The only support and encouragement I neededwas my own. I arrived quite a bit earlyso I wouldn't get lost and decided to get a manicure at a shop across thestreet first. My appointment was madefor the first weekend after I arrived back in New York, right before classesofficially started. I was excited. I knew I wanted a crop of short red curls justlike I'd seen Kelis rock in some photos.
I sat down in the salon chair facing the mirror, a familiarposition. The stylist submerged hisfingers into my roots, this time without an instant "ooh wee." Instead, he said, "It feels very dry." There was no relaxer to the rescue at thisappointment. The appointment felt more like a physical therapy session for myhair. I was taken to the sink, washed,conditioned, coached on how to care for it, then taken back to the chair for myrelaxed remnants to be trimmed for good, then taken back to the sink for arinse, then blowdried and colored, then another rinse and another blowdry, thencut into a shape then saturated with some product and dried and finally I wasnatural, red-headed, and short-haired. Ifelt brand new and free. I smiled thewhole way back to my dorm. And the nextday I went straight to the mall to shop for clothes and accessories tocomplement the look. That evening Iplayed dress up in my room and produced a Facebook-ready photo shoot to revealthe transformation. The flood ofsupportive responses both relieved and rejuvenated me, validating my decision.
The first time I returned home and my family saw my hair inperson, they glared in pure fascination at the tiny spirals protruding from myscalp. Many of my relatives, mainly mymom, couldn't resist the urge to touch it. My grandma asked me if I curled it manually and stared in genuinedisbelief when I explained that it curled like that itself, all I used waswater and gel. My great aunt fawned overhow beautiful I looked. I feltabsolutely on top of the world. Mymother, who has suffered with alopecia for the past few years, was relativelyskeptical when I told her I planned to cut my hair. She said she was concerned about my styleversatility, but I know she probably also hesitated with the thought of how itwould look. I realized during my triphome how incredibly unfamiliar my family was with the nature and texture ofnatural hair. But suddenly after seeingmine, my mom started showing me proudly her newly grown natural curls thatformed around the edges of her braided hair. I urged her to go natural too by insisting that her hair could look likemine also. So the evening she told meshe was going to cut off her relaxed ends after she took down her braids, Irejoiced inside but tried not to draw too much attention to my excitement. Remembering how much it tugged at me that shedidn't fully support my decision to cut my hair off, I loved that I was able toinspire her. It made me feel more adult,the concept of making a decision despite my mother's hesitance that, in theend, inspired her to change her initial perspective. So prior to her next braid appointment, mymom cut off her relaxed hair herself, put some grease in her virgin curls,looked in the mirror and smiled. And Ipray that her scalp will take her gesture as a peace offering and that heralopecia will start to heal for good.
During this same time, my grandmother had applied a relaxerto her hair that caused an extreme amount of breakage. And the day before I flew back to New York,she said to me, "I'm 'bout to grow my hair out like you did." I smiled and said, "That's good, it willbe good for it." I'm excited thatmy choice to take better care of myself and my hair has motivated the women inmy family to do the same and see the beauty in natural hair. But what has resonated with me from theexperience was the fact that I did my own research, garnered my own courage andconfidence, and made a decision that both educated and inspired the oldergenerations of my family. I feel thatthat's what each generation is supposed to do. Young, old, or middle-aged, everyone has room to learn, grow, andevolve.
0 comments:
Post a Comment