January 2014 had bittersweet moments.
My birthday was wonderful. The first good birthday I’ve had in years. My past few birthdays were filled with painful memories and realizations. One year I got put out of a car by an angry ex-boyfriend. The two following years my boyfriend at the time always bought me gifts with my own money. In 2013, I cried in a meeting that I was president of because of some petty stuff I can’t get into. After that meeting, I vowed to never celebrate my birthday ever again. I found myself breaking my promise when I agreed to allow my new man to show me the best birthday. If I didn’t enjoy it then I wouldn’t have to celebrate a birthday ever again. Of course I lost that bet. I will be celebrating birthdays for the rest of my life. I’m not too thrilled by the idea, who’s to say that the normal pattern of bad birthdays won’t continue? At the same time I’m excited for my next birthday.
The bitter half of the month occurred at the end. After having a great new year it’s only right that it’s ruined. I don’t think my life is always destined to be filled with tragedies, but lately they have become a constant part of my life. It use to way me down, but my resiliency has increased. I cling to the words of close family and friends. “You are going to be great one day. Life is just preparing it for you.” It’s the only thing that pushes me through.
I’m finally overcoming my depression. One of my resolutions was to remain positive and channel better energy. I recently received bad news. I would write about it, but the situation is delicate. Legalities are involved and too much information shouldn’t be shared. As easy as it is, I could allow myself to remain down about the situation, but instead I want to put my resolution to the test. Writing something light hearted could channel my thought into a more positive direction.
Not too long ago, I had a punk rock haircut. I called it the “Rihanna Hair-cut.” For months, I showed the picture of Rihanna to my boyfriend, friends, and Sorors. Each time I presented the photo of Rihanna I asked, “Would this look good on me?” No one ever said no. I convinced myself they were just lying. They were too scared to tell me the truth. Those close to me always say I hate to hear things about myself.
“It will take forever for my hair to grow back.”
“Men hate women with short hair.”
“Your dad hates short hair”
“Your face only goes well with long hair.”
Plus I was trying the natural thing. Everyone around me was doing it. I know some natural women believe that if a person does not want their natural hair texture then they must have to hate themselves. Nahhhhh, I just really could not manage it. My life was hectic and I don’t keep up with daily routines too well. I can’t even take my birth control every day. Less on train, maintain, and tie my hair up every night. Still I tried. I knew it would be worth it in the long run.
It took a while but I finally achieved the perfect hair pattern. I wasn’t used to seeing my hair short. It took some getting used to. It was a warm summer day before I finally decided to wear my natural afro. I left Oklahoma State University to return to Dallas for my miniature vacation. I’m more comfortable around the people I grew up with in Dallas. We all have known one another since freshman year in high school. There were no secrets and we typically didn’t hide stuff from one another. I can always count on them to be completely honest about anything and everything
Soooo…. I decided to show them my new natural hairstyle. I cut up an old Hello Kitty shirt and matched it with black shorts. I even went to the store to buy some cheap accessories. By the time I was done I felt like Pam Grier. I was rocking my fro and I was proud. Later that evening, I met up with a couple of my old friends. (I’m laughing right now because to post this I have to be raw, real, and unfiltered. My mother reads this and she won’t be pleased, but it goes along with the story.)
After a couple of rounds, I finally got bold enough to ask. “Do you guys like my hair like this?”
They looked at it. Their eyes were glazed. After delayed seconds, they both nodded their head in unison and replied, “Yeah it’s cool.” It was my turn to inhale the smoky haze.
I nodded my head. “Thank you.” I exhaled. That’s the answer I was looking for. After I completed the pass, I felt something sliding along my neck. I wanted to panic but I slowly reached my hand behind me. I was relieved when I found an excess string from my necklace. I knew if I just pulled at it the whole necklace would break. It had to be a more efficient way.
I glanced around looking for a tool to help me out. The first thing I see is a red lighter on the couch. I pick it up, abruptly rub my thumb to activate the small flame, and direct it towards the stray string. The first half of the string drops to the ground, but there is still a lot of excess string left. I attempt to burn the rest of it off. I succeed.
I sit there for a couple of seconds, pleased. My accessories are still perfect.
“Oh crap!!” My friend rises from his father’s stool. His expression is filled with horror. He’s looking me right in the eyes.
“What?” I’m looking around, paranoid.
“Your hair is on fire!” He is frantic. I look straight ahead into the reflection of the fire place. Sure enough there are flames engulfing the rear end of my head. I’m stuck. I can’t move. I watch my demise unable to do anything to prevent it. There wasn’t a thought in my head. He grabbed a damp towel from the stool and repeatedly hit the back of my head with it.
The smell of burned hair filled the room. I run to the bathroom, rinse my hair with water, and examine the damage. Little pieces lay in the sink. There is minimal damage, but the stench and the rough edges of my afro make me feel insecure. I returned to the living room where my friends were sitting. Since I’m not hurt they don’t care to let me hear their laughter. For the rest of the evening I have to sit there and listen to their jokes.
Weeks later I returned to Stillwater. I’m too scared to try out my afro again, but I’m tired of wigs and weave. I decide to go to my hair stylist. For months, she had been working with me trying to get my natural curls to the optimum health. She tells me that although my hair didn’t burn off, the strands are damaged and need to be cut.
I sat in the chair, glancing at top curly part of my head in the mirror. They looked great. Then there was the back part of my head. The mange, ravaged, dead hair that made me want to shoot myself. I ponder what I could do to my hair now. School was about to start and I couldn’t keep wearing wigs.
Finally my stylist came back in. “Do you know what you want to do?” I looked at her and then my phone. Finally, I show her the picture of Rihanna. She looks at it for a while and hands me the phone.
In her loud boisterous voice, she finally exclaims. “That will be perfect for you!!
Although my hair was basically destroyed, the final results pleased me. All the insecurities that dwelled inside me were resolved once my stylist spun my chair around and showed me my new do. I thought that I would never be able to share my embarrassing “setting my hair on fire” story with anyone, until something great came from it.
The hairstyle gave me a boat load of confidence and inspired me to love myself more. It was edgy. It fit me. It defined me, but not in a shallow way. Although cutting my hair was kind of forced, it showed me that I could commit bold acts and thrive from them. I don’t always have to choose the safe alternative. I could have easily chosen the wig, but I wanted to try something new, earth shattering in my eyes. It was a great choice.
Although I am now growing my hair back out, I still act like I have the haircut. I don’t think the fiery individual that the haircut sparked is going anywhere.
March 8, 2014
Great story!!! It gave me some insight as to why hair styles are really an attitude shift for other people. I’ve had some styles that some would consider daring and it reall brought out the inner beauty more, I think! Your hair is beautiful !