My hair has been a crux for so long.

Since I was a young girl I’ve felt its weight, depending on it for my own comfort from knowing that if I was too dark, too tall, too chunky at least I had hair to make me beautiful. Even though for most of my adolescence my hair was never what it should be; long, blonde, and silky.

I recall vividly my first weave. My mother installed it. My hair was abundant in curls and thick as barb wire, so it didn’t resemble the video girl lusciousness that I had intended. Instead it became this long black scarf with a cone shaped lid.

When it was time to take it out, my hair was dry and thirsty from being locked up in this tower like structure as if it were an enslaved princess, waiting for its prince, shampoo and conditioner. I asked my mom how I should go about washing it. She told me to wash and then comb. So I washed then I combed and my hair vengefully knotted itself together, vowing never to untangle.

My mother sat by my side for the next nine hours trying to coerce my hair free. After all it was at her insistence that I wash then comb.

After the clock struck twelve, my tears began to thin and my patience became even thinner.

“Cut it out! “ I yelled. I’d had it with this hair and no longer cared if it was still attached to my sore scalp.

My cries were met with the scissors. My mother tried her best to cut as few strands as possible but I still ended up with noticeably short pieces. I interrupted this as the cost of doing business with beauty.

If you had told me to just cut it all off I wouldn’t have scoffed at you. After I spent hours trying to save it? After years of trying to grow it? I would have told you that you were insane and me bald would never happen. I didn’t’ have a clue then that a year later a pair of scissors would no longer be my antagonist but that they would instead become my liberator from the notion that beauty has anything to do with the hair on your head.

A year after that weave debacle and in the midst of a dragged out relationship I decided to dye all of my hair a fiery pink. Slowly, bleach became my best friend and scissors ended up being my savior.

The people around me loved the pink color of my hair, and the many other colors my hair would later become. I like to think I looked pretty damn cool. Their complements made it easier for me to justify my need for such a drastic style. This however, was short lived.

A few months into the New Year I decided to cut my hair and give it a purple hue. As I told my plans to acquaintances and friends, It wasn’t the dyeing that people objected to (although everyone insisted on warning me that my hair would soon fall out) it was the decision to cut my hair that didn’t seem to impress many people I told.

The people around me, men and women, were confused as to WHY I would ever want to chop off my pretty locks in exchange for well, nothing. I wanted this look, I was ready for it but they didn’t understand. I reminded one male friend that Rihanna had short hair. In which he told me, “but Rihanna can afford a good weave.”

I laughed but I couldn’t help but feel offended. I didn’t understand why men could make decisions about beauty and it’s all encompasses in relation to women and the way they carry that presumed beauty. Everyone has their own idea on what is attractive and what they do or don’t like in the opposite sex but when was this vote taken? Who made this decision that men knew what was best for all women and their presentation?

Our culture glamorizes silky, long, impenetrable hair. Young black and brown girls have long seen the standard of beautiful hair and done everything they can to accomplish that standard. In skips the many relaxers and chemicals added to their hair. Out come the many products promising to provide a better texture for a young girls hair. Then appears the realization that one can pay to have false hair attached to their hair. A million dollar business has been made on the scalps of black and brown girls desire to be desired. This desire finally arriving at their door only it comes in the form of parodies and further misrepresentation of their existence in the world.

My hair is naturally curly. Recently wearing your hair natural has replaced the hair extensions and weaves for the many black women who donned these looks in the last decade. So why when my hair type has finally been accepted should I go and put it in a trashcan?

Because I am not my hair.

I am not the hair that I don’t have. My composition stays the same even when something external is taken away or missing. Who I am isn’t contingent on whether a man believes I am beautiful or attractive enough for him to jeer at when I am walking peacefully down a city street. I no longer want the desire that is attracted to an attitude that a woman can’t possibly know what is good for her.

I didn’t want the responsibility. I do not want that weight. What I did want is to finally love who I am and what I have grown to be despite the observations of others.

I needed that power. Did it not belong to me? Was it not my right?

There was such a sense of self in my journey. Every time I got closer to revealing my scalp to the world I felt prettier and more attractive. I didn’t feel like I was hiding behind a load of curls or spending hours trying to adjust and perfect my unruly hair because I didn’t have any. There seemed a slight irony about the way I started to view myself. And for the most part many people were okay with it. They loved the different colors I experimented with, I believe they also saw the liberation of a black woman doing with her hair what for generations has been disparaged.

When I got my first relaxer I was in need of desirability. I wanted people to see beauty in me. At twenty-five years old I realize that no matter what people see in you, it’s what you see in yourself that constitutes the beauty you are able to give the world. You don’t have to cut off all your hair to do that, but sometimes you do have to journey through the realm of the unknown in order to sort out why you are worth it and tell anyone who objects along the way to f**k off.

“When you are a servant to others, you cannot be of service to yourself.”

–

Anya

Image Source: Rich Hipster, Chrisette Michele’s Beautiful and New Social Hub!