When I was five my hair got to the point where my mom was so frightened that if she didn’t do something about it, some great big hairy monster from the depths of the ocean was going to lay eggs on my head and were weren't going to know about it until I was so brainwashed that I was eating human flesh, or something along those lines. So, when I was just about six she had enough of it all and gave me my very first relaxer. For those of you who don’t know, a relaxer is what turns a black women’s, or men’s, hair into what you see in the media; i.e. straight, “beautiful”, long, luxurious locks. And in my fragile six year old mind that’s what I thought I was going to be: beautiful. The end result of that adventure was something very complex. Yes, my hair was now much longer and incredibly straight, but I also came out with a few burns on my scalp, that my mom still refuses to acknowledge, and years of confusion on what beauty really is. Not to mention my mom had some pretty sore hands after all those hours of painstakingly combing and brushing my hair.

I can still remember 12 years ago when I went through that first ordeal, that afterwards I felt so beautiful. And I remember other people telling me I was beautiful too. My Dad said something along the lines of “Oh, don’t you look great!”, but he would say that I was gorgeous even if I was bald so that really didn’t mean anything to me. But what really had an impact on me was the fact that the kids at school said I was pretty. Because let’s face it, when you’re that young you only want to look nice for those whom you barely know. At Walker School Elementary I was no longer the butt of all the hair related jokes. I no longer had to endure the parodies of Usher’s “Burn”, AKA “Perm”. Finally, I was pretty. At least to the world around me I was. On the outside I was now what I was expected to look like: like every other Black girl in the world. And even though I saw what true Black beauty was in my Mother, I didn’t see it in myself. All I saw was what I thought beauty was like most other little Black girls; the Beyoncé's, the Tyra Banks’s, and the Oprah's. Straight hair, light hair, was what I equated towards my ideal of beauty. And when it comes down to it, that really is the problem within today’s and centuries of Black culture; we tend to want to look more Caucasian than like ourselves. And to be fair, I’m not afraid to say that. For some reason though, a lot of people are.

To this very day, I can still remember after every one of the relaxers that I had when I was younger I knew that yet again I was going to be pretty. I had in my head that other people were going to think I was pretty, and that boys were going to like me. And right there was the biggest problem. The only reason I thought I was pretty was because of what was on my head. My entire definition of beauty was what was being portrayed in the media. It wasn’t until years later that I realized that just because a boy didn’t think I was pretty, or my hair wasn’t straight, long, and light that I was still worth of love. I failed to understand that my uniqueness was what made me beautiful, as many people do.

Still, I forget sometimes that I am worth of love. And like all of us I need a knock in the head sometimes. So for me, I listen to another one of India’s miracle masterpieces, or as people foolishly call them, songs. The song entitled “I Am Not My Hair” is a testament to what women around the world, especially Black women, should believe and understand; we are not what society deems us. We are the ones who turn the world and break the waves. We, are what holds the universe in balance and are the face generations to come. If you don’t give yourself worth, why would you expect anyone else would? The lyrics and melody of that song moves me to tears almost every time I hear it.

At this point in my life I’ve decided to do what has really become a new version of the ‘60s and ‘70s hair movement, by going “natural”. All that really means is that I don’t put any chemical in my hair that can alter its state, such as a relaxer, or using a flat iron. To be honest, I don’t know why more girls don’t do it, because I feel free now. It seems that we have become trapped behind what has seemed to become second nature to us. I have the comfort of knowing that if I forget to put my hair up at night it won’t be a huge problem the next morning. But I think the best thing of all is that I can wash my hair as much, or as little as I want. I no longer have to schedule my showers around when I need to wash my hair. I don’t have to worry about burning my ears, neck, or forehead while in the process of trying to conform to something that when you come down to it is pretty ridiculous. I mean, why would I want to look like something I’m not. I don’t have naturally straight hair, it’s not light in color, and I’m not a cookie cutter person, which no one should be. So why would I want to alter myself to be so? I do have naturally wacky mac hair, it’s a beautiful, luxurious chocolate brown, and I am beautiful caramel colored girl.

I’ve come a long way since I was six. Since then I’ve battled with various chemical combinations, straightening irons, bad haircuts, experiments gone wrong, and various other atrocities. But finally, now at 21 I’ve come to the realization that as long as I feel good with myself, that is all that matters. It’s a daily battle just like everything in life, but I think I’m winning so far.