I remember the mental processing it took to cut my hair and go “natural”. I didn’t do it for the reasons many other women did. There was no melanin fueled agenda. No getting in touch with my roots. I was just tired of my hair. I was a breast feeding mom whose hair was ripped of all of its nutrients to feed a child that was more like a parasite several times a day. I was worn thin.
I sat in a chair with my child and best friend in tow “cut it off”. The barber was excited to see the transformation. When it was all said and done I freaked out. I looked masculine. There was no liberation just panic. So I rushed to a store to purchase some dye and I colored my hair blonde. Ahhhh much better.
As time passed my hair grew into its natural state. Curly. Curls that I hadn’t seen since early childhood. Prior to the relaxers that I never needed, but wanted, because all of the girls at school had straight hair. People would stop me in stores, on the streets, or at work.
“Your hair is so pretty how did you make it curly?”
“Is that a weave or crochet on top of your head?”
The questions didn’t bother me at first. As time progressed I became more frustrated and my answers became more rude. What I put on my hair to make it curly? Water. Is it a weave? What you want to touch it?
Why is it that we don’t believe black girls hair can be magical? Shifting shapes and varying in textures like art? Why can’t I be born with curls or waves or kinks strong enough to lift my head when I’m feeling down? Why can’t my beauty be real? Why is it that mine has to be created?!
My beauty does not require for me to “make it” like anyone else I use products to eliminate frizz, maintain moisture, or to add flare. But I do not make my curls…
My curls make me…