A Look Back: My Relationship With My Hair
Jan. 20th, 2008 01:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wlotusI am cleaning out my blog, and I pulled this post from the archives. I am amazed that as much as I have changed since I first wrote that post, my feelings about my hair have not changed.
My locs are shoulder-length once again, by the way. Once again, I am thrilled about that. This is the length I was shooting for when I cut it in July.
29 October 2002, 8:01 PM
On my way out of the office, a co-worker looked me over, head and ears fully covered by the floppy, purple hat I love to wear in the wintertime, and declared I bore an uncanny resemblance to Guinen. It was a name I had not heard or uttered in years, but hearing the name instantly brought back warm memories of losing myself in Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes during graduate school. Guinen was the bartender on the Enterprise, and Whoopi Goldberg played the part well. She was my favorite character on the show.
Anyway, thoughts of Whoopi Goldberg always, always lead to thoughts of her hair. I have admired her long, beautiful dreadlocs for as long as I can remember. In fact, I have admired dreadlocs for as long as I can remember. (Allow me to clarify: I admire dreadlocs which are kept clean and neat. Just my personal preference.)
4 years ago I began wearing my hair cornrowed. 3 years ago I stopped having my hair chemically straightened. 2-1/2 years ago I began locing my hair. 1-1/2 years ago I cut off the chemically straightened portion, which refused to loc. My locs are now shoulder-length.
I am thrilled.
My mother, however, is much less than thrilled. Between commenting on how I resemble Whoopi Goldberg, she has alternately, slyly suggested I cut it all off ("You would look so cute in a short cut, like your cousin's!") and offered to untangle the locs for me one by one, despite my assurances that mature locs cannot be untangled. I think she would like nothing better than for me to go back to straight hair.
Not a chance.
I grew up with straight hair. Except for summertime, when my mother would tightly cornrow my hair into countless braids so that she wouldn't have to be bothered with it, my hair was heat-straightened immediately after being washed and dried. I remember the pressing comb: the smell of grease and burning hair, the sizzle from the grease, the metal cap from the grease container she would give me to protect my ears as she straightened the edges, the tension in my neck and shoulders as I anticipated being burned, and the pain when either the hot grease or the comb itself would singe my scalp, neck, or ears. It never occurred to me to question the process. To ask why my own God-given, thickly curled hair texture was too whatever to remain in its natural state. To ask why this process was done over the same stove and countertops where our food was prepared every day. The only thing I questioned, as I entered my teens, was why my mother would not teach and trust me to press my own hair, as many of my classmates were allowed to do. Later that question became why I was not allowed to have my hair chemically straightened, as my cousin's was. In both cases, I took matters into my own hands. I waited until my mother went out one night when I was about 16 and carefully pressed my own hair, against her wishes...and did a damned good job. And the summer I turned 18 I saved up my money, went to the hairdresser, and had my hair chemically straightened, also against my mother's wishes.
So to me, having straight hair was "natural". Except for it not being as long as I would have liked for it to be--I had, and still have, visions of my hair cascading down my back to my shoulder blades--my hair was acceptable. Other than a bout with over-processing, my hair was healthy. I couldn't imagine my hair any other way.
The ironic thing about all of this is I have always taken my hair very, very personally. I don't know if it is because I was always jealous of my sister, whose hair was always longer than mine, if it is simply a part of my personality, or if it is some combination of the two. I never viewed my hair as an accessory: my hair was a part of me. I did not want someone (or something) else's hair attached to mine. I did not want my hair cut; my hairdresser was hard pressed to get me to submit to having my split ends trimmed. I refused to consider having my hair colored. Any suggestion of any of those things was grounds for a long lecture on why my hair deserved to be left in its natural state. I felt such suggestions were insinuating my natural hair was somehow "not good enough", and that played into my own deep-rooted sense of inadequacy. I refused to hear anything which suggested my natural hair was inadequate, and I demanded that everyone leave it the hell alone, to grow uninhibited.
Meanwhile, I continued to have it chemically straightened every six weeks, without fail...even if I had to charge my credit card to have it done.
I didn't realize the "natural" hair I defended so vigorously was not natural at all.
I'm normally an intelligent woman; I don't have any idea how I missed that for so many years.
At some point I began wearing my hair cornrowed, and I noticed how quickly my hair would grow when it was not being assaulted by combs and brushes and hot curlers every day. Even my hairdresser noticed it. He was pleased. I was too...but more than that, I was enchanted with the texture of the new growth. It had been years--probably not since my late teens--since I had felt my hair in its natural state, and I couldn't keep my fingers out of it. Instead of being exasperated by it, as I had been thoroughly conditioned to be when I was growing up, I loved it. And I missed it when I got my hair straightened. So in November 1999, when my hairdresser missed my appointment at a time when I could not change my schedule to accomodate his mistake, I went back home and decided I would never make my hair subject to another person's availability again, if I could help it. And not long after that, I made the next logical choice: I would never again fry my hair with heat or chemicals. In fact, the very idea disturbed me, and I found myself apologizing to my hair for the trauma I had put it through for all of those years.
The curse had finally been broken.
That next May, after thoroughly washing and conditioning it, I combed my hair and created two-strand twists all over my head. That was the last time I combed my hair. It's been locing, ever since. Though I would have liked my locs slightly thinner, I am very happy with them. I like how they look framing my face and pulled back into a ponytail. I like how they look after I set them on perm rods. I like how they feel when I run my fingers through them, and how they brush against the back of my neck. My hair no longer feels stiff, beaten into a shadow of its real self by heat/chemicals. It feels vibrant, soft, healthy, and strong.
Just like me.
Some day I may decide to cut off my locs and start over. I would have liked to have experimented with styling my natural hair before locing it, if I had to do it all over again. But I don't ever see myself putting my hair through the torture it once endured in the hands of my mother, then me. I've apologized to my hair once; I don't want to have to ever do that, again.
My locs are shoulder-length once again, by the way. Once again, I am thrilled about that. This is the length I was shooting for when I cut it in July.
29 October 2002, 8:01 PM
On my way out of the office, a co-worker looked me over, head and ears fully covered by the floppy, purple hat I love to wear in the wintertime, and declared I bore an uncanny resemblance to Guinen. It was a name I had not heard or uttered in years, but hearing the name instantly brought back warm memories of losing myself in Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes during graduate school. Guinen was the bartender on the Enterprise, and Whoopi Goldberg played the part well. She was my favorite character on the show.
Anyway, thoughts of Whoopi Goldberg always, always lead to thoughts of her hair. I have admired her long, beautiful dreadlocs for as long as I can remember. In fact, I have admired dreadlocs for as long as I can remember. (Allow me to clarify: I admire dreadlocs which are kept clean and neat. Just my personal preference.)
4 years ago I began wearing my hair cornrowed. 3 years ago I stopped having my hair chemically straightened. 2-1/2 years ago I began locing my hair. 1-1/2 years ago I cut off the chemically straightened portion, which refused to loc. My locs are now shoulder-length.
I am thrilled.
My mother, however, is much less than thrilled. Between commenting on how I resemble Whoopi Goldberg, she has alternately, slyly suggested I cut it all off ("You would look so cute in a short cut, like your cousin's!") and offered to untangle the locs for me one by one, despite my assurances that mature locs cannot be untangled. I think she would like nothing better than for me to go back to straight hair.
Not a chance.
I grew up with straight hair. Except for summertime, when my mother would tightly cornrow my hair into countless braids so that she wouldn't have to be bothered with it, my hair was heat-straightened immediately after being washed and dried. I remember the pressing comb: the smell of grease and burning hair, the sizzle from the grease, the metal cap from the grease container she would give me to protect my ears as she straightened the edges, the tension in my neck and shoulders as I anticipated being burned, and the pain when either the hot grease or the comb itself would singe my scalp, neck, or ears. It never occurred to me to question the process. To ask why my own God-given, thickly curled hair texture was too whatever to remain in its natural state. To ask why this process was done over the same stove and countertops where our food was prepared every day. The only thing I questioned, as I entered my teens, was why my mother would not teach and trust me to press my own hair, as many of my classmates were allowed to do. Later that question became why I was not allowed to have my hair chemically straightened, as my cousin's was. In both cases, I took matters into my own hands. I waited until my mother went out one night when I was about 16 and carefully pressed my own hair, against her wishes...and did a damned good job. And the summer I turned 18 I saved up my money, went to the hairdresser, and had my hair chemically straightened, also against my mother's wishes.
So to me, having straight hair was "natural". Except for it not being as long as I would have liked for it to be--I had, and still have, visions of my hair cascading down my back to my shoulder blades--my hair was acceptable. Other than a bout with over-processing, my hair was healthy. I couldn't imagine my hair any other way.
The ironic thing about all of this is I have always taken my hair very, very personally. I don't know if it is because I was always jealous of my sister, whose hair was always longer than mine, if it is simply a part of my personality, or if it is some combination of the two. I never viewed my hair as an accessory: my hair was a part of me. I did not want someone (or something) else's hair attached to mine. I did not want my hair cut; my hairdresser was hard pressed to get me to submit to having my split ends trimmed. I refused to consider having my hair colored. Any suggestion of any of those things was grounds for a long lecture on why my hair deserved to be left in its natural state. I felt such suggestions were insinuating my natural hair was somehow "not good enough", and that played into my own deep-rooted sense of inadequacy. I refused to hear anything which suggested my natural hair was inadequate, and I demanded that everyone leave it the hell alone, to grow uninhibited.
Meanwhile, I continued to have it chemically straightened every six weeks, without fail...even if I had to charge my credit card to have it done.
I didn't realize the "natural" hair I defended so vigorously was not natural at all.
I'm normally an intelligent woman; I don't have any idea how I missed that for so many years.
At some point I began wearing my hair cornrowed, and I noticed how quickly my hair would grow when it was not being assaulted by combs and brushes and hot curlers every day. Even my hairdresser noticed it. He was pleased. I was too...but more than that, I was enchanted with the texture of the new growth. It had been years--probably not since my late teens--since I had felt my hair in its natural state, and I couldn't keep my fingers out of it. Instead of being exasperated by it, as I had been thoroughly conditioned to be when I was growing up, I loved it. And I missed it when I got my hair straightened. So in November 1999, when my hairdresser missed my appointment at a time when I could not change my schedule to accomodate his mistake, I went back home and decided I would never make my hair subject to another person's availability again, if I could help it. And not long after that, I made the next logical choice: I would never again fry my hair with heat or chemicals. In fact, the very idea disturbed me, and I found myself apologizing to my hair for the trauma I had put it through for all of those years.
The curse had finally been broken.
That next May, after thoroughly washing and conditioning it, I combed my hair and created two-strand twists all over my head. That was the last time I combed my hair. It's been locing, ever since. Though I would have liked my locs slightly thinner, I am very happy with them. I like how they look framing my face and pulled back into a ponytail. I like how they look after I set them on perm rods. I like how they feel when I run my fingers through them, and how they brush against the back of my neck. My hair no longer feels stiff, beaten into a shadow of its real self by heat/chemicals. It feels vibrant, soft, healthy, and strong.
Just like me.
Some day I may decide to cut off my locs and start over. I would have liked to have experimented with styling my natural hair before locing it, if I had to do it all over again. But I don't ever see myself putting my hair through the torture it once endured in the hands of my mother, then me. I've apologized to my hair once; I don't want to have to ever do that, again.
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no subject
Date: 2008-01-20 08:03 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-20 08:09 pm (UTC)It didn't bother me. I was so enthralled with the texture of the new hair that the itchiness was secondary. Plus, the itchiness I experienced with the chemicals was similar, and I could easily tolerate that.
no subject
Date: 2008-01-20 08:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-20 08:56 pm (UTC)I'm horrified at the things you were forced to do, then chose to do, to make your hair "normal?". I'm glad you've seen the light.
I've never seen (well, felt) dreadlocks. I'm intrigued by the idea--my hair is very curly, so I could probably have locks if I really wanted to. (wouldn't my mother be shocked)
Has your mother gotten used to your hair?
Keep up the hair love!
no subject
Date: 2008-01-21 07:32 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-20 10:29 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-01-21 07:45 pm (UTC)