Detangling The Roots of Black Hair: From Self-Hatred to Self-Acceptance

Fun fact: I have kept diaries/journals since I was seven years old. Although most of my entries from age 7 -9 would say things like " I had a good day. Or, "Today was a bad day",  I do remember writing a short story about hair woes and my overwhelming lust for this magical potion called "The Relaxer". I believed that having a relaxer would turn me from ugly to pretty. I believed that having a relaxer would make me pretty like my Christie (friend of Barbie) and Teen Nikki ( friend of Barbie's sister Skipper).  Or, at the very least would make me pretty like my mom and my older cousins Jill and Jessica with their pin straight hair. I hated being teased and taunted by my classmates who called me Tri-Horns (My mother and father would style my extremely thick hair in these three thick braids with neon bright hair balls and brightly colored poodle barrettes). Some classmates also made me fun of me for spending recess by myself reading books. Although reading was my favorite pastime, it was more than that. When I read, I could be anyone I wanted to be. I could do anything I wanted to do including have super straight long black hair like the late great Aalyiah. My mother finally consented to get my hair relaxed about a week before my First Communion.  I was raised Catholic but for now, I consider myself agnostic. I remember the hair appointment took quite literally, from morning to evening. The process was long, painful, and actually, disgusting. The relaxer itself smelled of old eggs and my father's dirty yard cleaning socks. But before I could gag, I would have to scream because once the chemicals worked their way through my roots I felt an intense sharp pain. I felt as though someone dumped my hair into a boiling pot of water. "Beauty is pain" my mother quipped from over the old copy of Essence her stylist had given her to read. And do not even get me started about the 2-3 hours I was made to sit perfectly still under the hair dryer..... Fast forward to my first look at myself in the mirror after the torture had finally ended. I stood in the salon restroom for a few good minutes. At long last, I had beautiful hair. At long last I was beautiful. Gone were the ugly thick braids, in their place were long luxurious locks that cascaded all the way down my back. All of sudden, my eyes were pretty, my smile was pretty. Everything about me was pretty! It was intoxicating. "Honey, please get your hands out of your hair, you'll muss it up." my mother gently scolded. But I was not listening. I was the most beautiful girl in the whole universe and on Monday, my entire class would see this. "Wow, your hair! Your hair is so pretty.  I didn't know you were so pretty." I drank all of those stupid boy classmates' starstruck compliments like a someone who found an oasis after wandering the desert for weeks. I found myself excelling more in classes. I found myself reaching out to make more friends. It would be a couple more years before I learned about the scientific method, but I already concluded that "beauty=power".  But unfortunately, "All Magic Comes With A Price".  Having beautiful "White-Girl" straight hair meant that every Sunday before the First Day of School was spent locked in the hair salon from morning to night. It also meant having to sit out when my cousins and friends spent all afternoon swimming. It meant resisting the urge to scratch the hell out of my hair when the residual relaxer material made really annoying scabs in my head.  But hey,  these were small prices to pay for being beautiful, for having older Black Women smile at you and say "Oh, you have good hair, Miss Thing. You blessed!" When I was young, I thought that relaxed hair was supposed to take away all of my self-esteem problems, all of my worries about being accepted by peers were supposed to be alleviated. Oh how naive I was....in actuality, kids just found different ways to make fun of me. No longer was I called Trihorns, instead I was called Oreo or later on in high school "That Really White Black Girl"... "If I close my eyes, I could actually pretend you are not Black. How funny would that be?" And, you better believe my sibling rivalry with my younger sister intensified once her own hair received the magic potion. Not only was she already perfect and the better kid from my perspective, but now she too had beautiful straight hair..... Oh fun. Twenty years later, I thank the universe for my hair being resilient, because I put it through the ninth circle of hell by the time I became responsible for it in college. I had my ex-best friend cut my hair into bangs, I went for weeks without washing it because I just didn't want to deal. Most days, I just stuck it in a sad pony-tail and went about my business. It was only when I had my new fresh relaxer, every 6- 8 weeks that I felt renewed and beautiful. I used to purposely plan my relaxers close to my birthday, dating anniversaries and holidays. That was often a great source of emotional and financial stress. Relaxers on average cost me 70-90 bucks. Nevertheless, I went above and beyond to get my fix from that "creamy crack". I would do anything to feel beautiful again. We now to turn to my hair and state of mind in the present day. It is time to start over. I have put my hair through hell and every abuse imaginable. I know that having natural hair will come with its own set of woes, but I feel that going back to having natural hair may restore that smile of a happy 6 1/2 year old little girl who was just happy for life and who she was in that tiny moment. Hair care takes lots of love, lots of time and lots of patience. But beyond starting over with my hair, having "The Big Chop" will mean the culmination of owning my identity as a Black Woman. It will be saying fuck you to all of the Eurocentric beauty ideals that I desperately coveted for much of my life, It will be saying fuck you to previously saying fuck you to my original form and all of my essence. It will be saying "fuck you" to all of the expectations  placed on black women's appearance from the hair on their head to the curves of their bodies. And let me make something clear to Black ladies who want to keep rocking their relaxers. I do not disparage your choices one bit. I got chemical relaxers for all of the wrong reasons.  I believe that Black Women can wear their hair however they want, so long as they love themselves and treasure what is underneath their hair. :) I feel fortunate to have forged friendships and made experiences with other Black Women (my former Belly Dance Instructor turned older sister-figure/mentor, my cosplay sisters and more recently, my research mentor). And, my choice to join the braid train,  #Team Natural (laughs), has been met with so much enthusiasm, especially,  from my younger sisters. In truth it has been an extra special way to bond with them. I haven't set the  date for The Big Chop officially, but best believe it will happen by Thanksgiving. And yes, for cosplay and everyday, I may still wear wigs. But the difference is that wigs will now act as accessories, same as a studded belt or a bright baby blue hair bow. I can rock a 20s bob on Monday, Anime Pigtails, on Tuesday and shit, how about Mermaid Green hair on Wednesday. It will not matter because when I am home, writing research papers, drafting grant proposals or curling up to watch Netflix with my better-half, it will be just me, my own hair and the undeniable truth that I am enough and I was always enough. I always was brilliant, I was always beautiful, and I was always deserving of love just the way I am. The way this crazy thing called the Universe made me.