I Am Not My Hair

My hair-straightening journey didn’t start with a relaxer. It started with a hot comb around the age of eight. A close friend of my mom’s, whom I considered like an aunt, was our beautician. For nearly five years, I sat for hours to have my hair washed, blow-dried, and pressed with a hot comb. I recall the smoke, the smell of heat, and the anxiety I felt with each press as I cupped my ears in fear of being grazed by even the slightest touch of the hot metal. By the time I was in the seventh grade, I’d grown weary of this lengthy process. I’d heard about straightening perms, also known as relaxers. By this time, many girls had one. But only now had I become curious about having one myself. I decided I would rather spend weekends at the mall or the movies with friends than spend another hour in that chair having my hair pressed to perfection.

Having a relaxer was very different. My hair, once long and voluminous, had become sleek and thin over time. I used the heat of a curling iron to style it, and I had to get trims often to refresh and repair it. By high school, I was in full experimental mode. I tried everything from hair color to hair weave and eye contacts. Occasionally, I even did my own relaxers. But for me, none of those enhancements went the distance. With every attempt to feel prettier, I felt less and less like myself. In high school, one thing was clear to me: I liked boys and boys liked me. However, in my desire to be noticed, I always had this sense of wanting to be admired and seen for who I was, not for who others wanted me to be. I often felt that if I adorned myself with superficial things, the authentic me would be less appreciated when she returned. As a result, my days wearing contacts were short-lived, and I stopped wearing hair extensions. I wanted to be naturally me, whether I was liked or not.

I continued to color my hair at home. Yet, I lacked knowledge of the proper care techniques to protect my permanently colored strands. In addition, and to the detriment of my hair, I continued to use heat. By my senior year in high school, my hair had shed so unevenly that I had to wear braids until it grew back. I was happy to wear braids, as they are an African custom and a representation of my heritage.

I thought long, sleek hair was what I wanted, along with hundreds of other little black girls who had not yet learned to embrace or style the kinky, curly patterns of their own hair. A beautiful yet challenging journey. I came to realize that what I truly wanted was healthy, manageable hair that could be worn in a style that didn’t make me feel like a little girl anymore. With braids and castor oil, my hair was quickly restored. I had learned the first of many hair lessons: never double-process the hair with relaxer and permanent color, and never mix chemicals and heat-styling without the knowledge to nurture and protect the hair.

I don’t remember the exact moment I made the decision to transition back to natural hair, but now that I was in college, something in me had changed. The desire to be naturally me had been amplified by a newfound womanhood. I was around nineteen when my mom and brother came home to find almost all of my hair gone. My brother was around fifteen at this time and, from what I could observe, neither he nor my mom seemed particularly surprised beyond the first few seconds. They appeared to be more confused than anything.

“I didn’t want the perm anymore,” I explained, referring to the permanent relaxer. I don’t recall saying much more. Before that day, I often romanticized the thick, wavy, unprocessed roots that would grow between hair appointments, being separated from the bone-straight, relaxed tresses that hung from them. I imagined them sprouting like a plant after being liberated from the harsh chemicals.

Then, one day, while home alone, I grabbed a pair of scissors and began cutting. It was the most exhilarating thing I’d ever attempted, as far as my hair, even more exciting than getting my first relaxer. And since I had no memory of my hair’s natural curls, it was like meeting myself for the first time. I had about an inch of length now, just enough for my natural curls to take form. I was free.