Mamma would yank the comb through my hair and if I cried she would part my hair very nicely and hit me in the head with the hairbrush. I hated my hair because Mamma hated my hair.
A lifetime of listening to the message that straight was best. My mother took a hot comb to me every Saturday morning and the process consumed the whole day for the both of us. She was unskilled at pressing so I would have several burns from the comb. Small scabby burns that circled my ear and sometimes found their way to the side of my neck. By the time she finished, there were enough tears and frustration to last a lifetime.
"Be still or I will burn you on purpose".
I thought I was being burned on purpose. It was shocking to hear she was doing her best. From my perspective, her best just wasn't good enough.
Why was it so important to have straight hair if it caused so much trauma?
I learned early that my hair was something to be managed and my particular grade of curly was too much to handle. The message was straight is best. No matter the sacrifice.
I turned all the hate and fear of strong curly hair, inside and continued to hate my hair long after she stopped pressing.
The new order of straight was relaxers. A lye-based chemical that is now being investigated as the main ingredient of cancer in Black and Brown women.
Messages: unmanageable, nappy-headed, pick-a-ninny (the name given to little girls who were too young to get pressed or chemically relaxed. Little girls who wore their natural hair), There were numerous other derogatory names for natural hair that convinced parents that little black girls hair was something that needed to submit to popular aesthetics.
How confusing are the messages we internalized as children? It seems the confusion around hair, especially Black hair is still at the forefront of most conversations.
The roots of my identity around hair are firmly planted. I've spent years trying to bend my hair into submission without appreciating the beauty of natural hair.
I apologize to my hair for not loving the texture and the way it curls around my fingers either wet or dry. The way it bounces when I take the time to give each strand the love it deserves.
I'm sorry I spent so many years looking to others for a connection to myself that was not theirs to give. My hair was never the problem. The problem was believing I wasn't enough. Therefore my hair, my skin, and everything about me would never be enough. I accepted someone else's beliefs as my reality and went about life trying to unknowingly kill everything that made me unique.
I believed my hair would not grow, which is true when it is smothered in lye-based chemicals. It becomes dry and brittle. Stripped of everything that makes it unique.
I have outgrown the toxic relationship I had with my hair. It took a lifetime and lots of courageous conversations with myself. The beauty industry lied and told me my hair was bad and needed to be controlled with toxic chemicals.
I didn't like people touching my hair for fear that they would not respect its complicated knots and curls. Most times when I let someone, it was painful and disappointing.
I was a hairdresser for a hot minute because I was determined to reconnect Black women with the magic of their hair. I got so much pushback. I get it because if someone can convince you that you are not enough, you believe it and the toxic message influences everything you do, say, and feel.
My best friend used to offer to wash my hair and I trusted her because she was gentle and respectful. We would talk as she washed my hair and it was such a healing moment. She seemed to understand my hair's complicated twists and turns. I was in heaven.
As she rinsed my hair and placed the towel over my head to signal the end of this glorious experience, I noticed that Willie, her brother's friend, had replaced her and it had been he who was washing my hair. For a brief second, I was mortified. No man boy had ever touched my hair, least of all completing such an intimate act as wrapping his fingers around every curl and having those curls respond in such a way as to surrender to his touch. I was so embarrassed to be so exposed in such a way. I looked at them both and I could not speak. I wanted to disappear, to float outside my body as I had done many times before to escape the embarrassment.
How could my best friend expose me so? Could I really trust her? Willie must have seen the depth of my confusion. I believe something in him recognized how intimate what had just happened for me and he responded with gentleness and understanding, "I love your hair". Those four words opened something in me that I was not aware existed. I could be vulnerable and exposed and still be safe. In one split second, that reality allowed forgiveness for all the unloving hands.
I believed mistreatment was my hair's birthright for being strong and resilient. For resisting the third-degree fire of the hot comb on those long Saturday mornings. In the eyes of my hair, it was oppressive to suffer through hours and hours of pain, burns, and cursing.
The summer before high school, this boy/man confirmed something that I wasn't strong enough to shout from the rooftops:
I Love My Hair!!!
Sometimes the most toxic relationship is the one we have with ourselves.
Self-Care takes courage and so much love for the person looking back at you, reflecting a truth you might not be strong enough to accept.
My hair is not my superpower, believing in myself is.
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