I hate my hair. Yeah, I said it. I hate it.
She's thick and wild and defies gravity. She breaks the rules of basic science, and she can't be tamed. It was only four years ago when I was prancing around my room listening to Kendrick Lamar's "To Pimp a Butterfly" when I decided to make the big chop. Four years ago my hair was straight. It was also heat damaged, broken, and brittle. I had worked so hard to tame my hair only to please my peers. In the end, it only left me miserable and damn near bald. I hated looking at it.
Now, four years later, when I look in the mirror, I still hate my hair. Don't get me wrong, the hair is beautiful and shiny. It's just too difficult to manage on a daily basis. It's grown out to a length that awkwardly frames my face. It's still chemically damaged, and a lot of it is permanently straight, which obviously stands out from the rest of my kinky coils.
And let me not forget how expensive it is to care for hair like mine. Products are expensive and limited. A good protective hairstyle will also cost you a check or two. My hair will forever be on my to-do list. Not a day goes by without me tackling the simple question: "What am I going to do with my hair?"
What if I feel like being as rebellious as my hair? What if I just said "eff it" and go to bed without figuring out my hair first? I'm doomed to suffer the next day. I wish it were as simple as throwing on a hat and walking out the door, but unfortunately, it isn't. My hair doesn't fit under a hat, and setting it to fit it in one will take me a good 30 minutes.
If I'm so upset with my hair all the time, why don't I just go back to straightening it? I ask myself this everytime I am faced with the task of tackling my hair. I wish the answer would be an easy yes or no answer. Chemically processing my hair is another hectic task all on its own. The nearly irreversible damage that it brings, the constant upkeep, and the scars. Yes, the scars. I would rather cry about healthy hair than unhealthy hair.
And I promise you, she's beautiful. My hair is soft and filled with texture that is unique to only me. Though she's slow to grow, she is still growing. The length I had four years ago is dramatically longer and more filling. My hair is my most complimented attribute. I haven't put a flat iron to my hair in years, and she is the healthiest she has ever been. It might take me another four years to truly love my hair, but I am excited with anticipation of this torturous love-hate relationship.
Feminism Redefined
