I think about my hair a lot.
Our evolution, our relationship together.
I know that it may seem shallow to admit I spend so much time thinking about my own hair, but it’s the truth. I spend hours staring at it, styling it, straightening and curling it. I spend time thinking about other people's hair too. If I like it more than mine, less than mine. If I would take it as my own, given the chance. I think about what it says about the person: where are they from, what do they like to do, how old they are. Hair has always been of importance to me.
I never used to liked my hair. When I was two I wanted to cut it off because the tight brown curls hurt to brush. When I was three I wanted to straighten it. I was allowed to, every once and a while. My hair was what made me look the most different from other kids, for a long time. It was tightly wound, and almost black it was so dark. It had frizz and knots. It was undoubtedly different from that of the other little Atlanta girls.
When I was four we moved to New Orleans. When I was five I cut my hair off.
Not all of it, of course, but massive pieces of it lay on the ground, in my hands and on my clothes. I shoved the scissors behind a pillow and told my mom that it fell out. She wasn’t fooled.
My hair was the first part of my appearance I ever disliked. The first thing I ever stared at for hours in the mirror ripping at and tugging on until it bent to my will. I would tear it out of my head in clumps, I would hold straighteners to my head too long head in hopes that it would fall off. I would wrap it around curling irons set to 600 degrees and pray it would just shrivel up, that I would never have to deal with it again.
My hair is now one of the only parts of my appearance I regularly enjoy. Some days it is the only thing I think looks good, the one constant in my body’s life.
And some days I think it looks terrible. I pull it back away from my face only to highlight the roundness of my cheeks and to wonder all day which looks worse. Some days I still rip at it or hold the iron on for too long or scream at my hairbrush as though it would listen to me, or even less likely, care what I have to say.
And some days I just let it be. I let frizzy ringlets and loose curls sit next to each other in a clotted mess of dark brown hairs and link arms and hands because without my hair I wouldn’t look like me. Because for the most part, I love my hair.
So let this be my official thank you. Thank you hair, for sticking with me through thick and thin. For never falling out, or burning, or shriveling up. For reminding me of my heritage and where I came from. Thank you for not looking the same as anyone else. Thank you for always being there.
