Hair - Best Personal Essay Ever

I used to despise Sundays - not because I was forced to go to church or camp, but because it was hair day. For as long as I can remember (up until recently), my mom has been responsible for my hair. She would bathe me, wash my hair with a small blue bucket and then I would sit in an uncomfortable chair for two to three hours while we typically watched movies and shows of her choosing. As a child, Sundays were a nightmare. I would often get reprimanded for having an attitude and being overly grumpy on these days, but I couldn’t help it. It was practically torture. When I hear my little cousin cry when she has to get her hair done, I’m like, “I totally feel you.” Despite hating the experience, my mom was the only one I trusted with my hair. Women would often compliment my hair because it looked so healthy and “I wish I could do that for myself/my daughter!” If my mom was with me, I would immediately look to her after giving my thanks. She was always very pleased to hear the praise and had no qualms about sharing her natural hair wisdom with anyone who asked for it. I started growing an interest in doing my own hair in early high school. I begged my mom time and time again to go from twists to twist out. She wasn’t convinced that I was ready to take on the responsibility of managing my hair. She was right, but I tried to get her to think otherwise. It was during the cold months of my freshman year that I was finally granted my wish.

I am standing in front of the mirror atop my brown, antique dresser. It is an evening in December, and the light on my ceiling blends with the dark pinks of my walls to create a warm hue. It’s nearly too warm and it makes it hard to see clearly in my reflection, but I wanted to be in solitude until I was sure I looked presentable. I have my white hair care kit near me compact with oil, my dark pink comb, pastel pink brush with near transparent bristles, curl & lock gel that’s always cold to the touch, and other miscellaneous, strewn about things like bobby pins and hair ties. I barely know what to do with any of it. My hands hesitantly reach for the first twist - what if I rip my hair? What if I cause damage? All the things my mom warned me against plague my mind as I start to unravel the end. I pull the two strands apart delicately until I reach my roots.The first twist is separated and is much curlier than I thought it would be. I reach for the next one and get the same result. I’m not sure how much time goes by, but by the end my fingers are cramping and I have to stretch them along with my tired arms. I hadn’t yet known what it meant to separate and fluff, so I left my hair as it was and was satisfied(looking back it looked like someone had spilled a cup of ramen noodles on my head). What I thought to be my near perfect curls were shrunken and bouncing against my chin as I put on my outfit for the family outing. My family compliments my hair. In the back of my mind I think about how I will have to retwist my hair when I return home later in the night, but I try not to let that bother me in the moment.

I was in kindergarten during my first sleepover. I could barely sit still throughout the school day and I knew I wasn’t alone. I remember having fun with my friends and wishing I never had to go home. Then, it was nearing bedtime and we had to find something quiet to do so my friend’s family could sleep. Obviously not wanting to go to bed, we began to braid and play with each other’s hair. I say we, but I really mean them. I knew my mom would be furious if I let anyone take my twists apart or try to comb through my hair improperly. It was non negotiable - no one was touching a single strand. All the girls paired up and I watched them comb their hair that traveled down their backs and rested there, falling in between their fingers. This is when I truly became aware that I was different. I can still channel the isolation I felt in that moment. In elementary and middle school, I would try and braid my twists like Katniss’, and I would put little flower barrettes and bows in it to try and fit a standard that wasn’t in my size. Of course, though, no one wanted to tell me and I walked around like that thinking I was cute or something. I had convinced myself that by molding and shaping myself to be like my peers, I would achieve happiness with myself. My wake up call happened when I had my hair straightened in sixth grade, just a few weeks before the middle school dance.

It was my first time going to a hair salon, and I honestly didn’t know how to feel. Initially I was ecstatic to get my hair straightened, but as my mom drove closer I began having second thoughts. My mom had been doing my hair all my life and now we were about to put the responsibility in the hands of someone I had  never even met. I wondered if the hair stylists would gossip like they do in the movies, with their dramatic story retellings and loud laughter. I remember the salon having a pink and green theme. It was fairly spacious and also fairly empty. We confirmed our appointment and my mom and I had to sit for what felt like forever before I was guided to an appointment chair. I only remember a few details of the hours I spent there: I remember how the conditioner smelled like feet that hadn’t been washed in days. I remember crying because the woman was tugging on my hair too hard and I remember trying to hide my tears in the sheet across my chest. I remember being shocked and deeply unsettled by the aggressiveness, even if it wasn’t intentional on her part. My mom had always tried her best to be mindful of the softer spots of my head and would listen to me if I told her I felt pain. I didn’t say anything because I was shy to be around so many new people, so I continued to cry and hope no one would notice (they did). Despite all that, when my hair was finally done I was elated. After all the years that had gone by I felt like I finally fitted the image I had been trying so hard to impersonate.

The problems began when I realized how much work and time it took to maintain straight hair when you’re born with the thickest hair type on the planet. Wrapping my hair at night took up to half n hour alone. My mom had to help me straighten it every morning and would endlessly lecture me about heat damage and voicing her concerns (note: my mom was never enthusiastic about me getting my hair strengthened in the first place. She’s a natural hair enthusiast for life.) At that time, my hair always smelled like heat and a sweet scented humidity prevention gel. I would leave the house loving my look but by the end of the day it would be a big, frizzy puffy mess. I was incredibly frustrated - why didn’t my straight hair lay calmly on my back like my friends? Why couldn’t I effortlessly flip it over my shoulder like they could? My dreams had been crushed and I missed my twists desperately. My mom felt some type of way because even though she loved my twists, she paid a lot of money for that hair appointment. So I had to rock that look a little longer than I wanted to before I was back at square one.