When India.Arie proudly proclaimed she was not her hair I admired her courage for addressing a closet topic not typically addressed unless in the company of women who look like me. Yet, I still felt like the outlier. I am not my hair but it is a part of me. Like my clothes and make up it is an expression of how I feel, an extension of who I am, and for some, how I will be perceived upon first glance. I am not ashamed to admit that, for now I love my hair.
This was not the case when I was younger.
As a child, my hair robbed me of play time with my friends. It was to blame for long hours in a kitchen sitting in front of a hot fiery stove that kept irons hot. It was those very same irons that swept so close to my scalp it gave me goose bumps. It was responsible for hours spent in a hot, smoky salon surrounded by gossip and scents of Finisheen instead of being outdoors on a beautiful Saturday. Among my childhood friends it was the tense subject of curiosity and scrutiny from those who didn’t understand why I didn’t wash my hair everyday or why it didn’t possess the same movement as their straight golden locks.
Yes, I hated my hair.
My disdain for my coarse tresses finally ended in college where I was surrounded by women of color who embraced their crown and glory. Their hair was dyed, shaved, curled, braided, weaved, and sometimes wavy. It was art on display and they wore it proudly. Their pride was contagious and soon I was allowing myself to experiment with new hair styles and colors. Years later, I am still on a journey towards healthy hair. I am not a cosmetologist. I don’t possess a degree or certificate in hair care and I haven’t won any awards. I’m simply passionate about Black hair. After years of bad stylists, bad hair stylists and bad advice I put my hair care in my own hands – literally. I became my very own bathroom beautician. On Sundays I reserve the afternoon and spend it washing, hood drying and curling my mane. Now, my bathroom and bedroom look like the cloudy salons I once frequented. I have a staple of products that I stick to after years of mistrials and broken promises by miracle creams, shampoos and magic hair scarves. I use a hair journal to record my progress so I can easily recall what’s working and stop what isn’t. I’m not an expert and I still make mistakes along the way, but I’m learning. I’m always interested in talking about hair with my friends and when we get together and hold polite conversation about our family, jobs and latest shopping excursion the conversation undoubtedly arrives at hair. We praise someone’s new ‘do, swap hair products, and recount salon stories – good and bad. Hair is one of those threads that ultimately bring conversation, curiosity and compliments out of women of color.
I hope through these blog posts, my progress and setbacks can help you and perhaps you can share your own hair story.
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