I’m here, but is my hair?

I’m here, but lately it hasn’t felt like my hair has been here with me. 

I started getting my hair relaxed when I was 12 and didn’t expect to ever stop. It’s seductive to have hair that does what you ask it to with minimal effort beyond spending a few hours in a salon chair every seven weeks. 

Before I was 12, my hair and I had little use for one another. What kid has the patience to sit still while hot comb ritual plays out? You know, the one where the comb heats on the stove and then gets dabbed on a paper towel to make sure it’s just got enough to straighten your unruly strands but not so hot that it’s going to singe it off. That smell of burning hair mixed with hair cream still makes my ears twitch with fear of being burned. 

And then there was summer time when it was too hot for hot combs and not worth it when I was swimming everyday. That required a whole other ritual. Sitting between my mother’s legs on the floor as she sat on the bed, trying not to yank too hard as she put olive oil on my scalp before parting my hair and braiding it tightly, hoping the colorful plastic barrettes or plastic balls would hold it in place at least until the next day. No matter the season, before I was 12 my hair and tears went hand in hand. 

But it was usually worth the trouble. I always felt pretty when it was done. Well, except that time in fourth grade and my french braid came out during swimming class. I endured the laughter of my friends as my hair slowly swelled to Afro proportions and counted the minutes until I could go home and get it fixed by my ever attentive grandmother.

My grandmother always told me that I had good hair. It wasn’t until I started relaxing it that I believed her. My relaxed hair and I, we had a good run. Sure there were some ill-advised styles during the 90s that are sure to be memorialized in a number of bar and bar mitzvah photos and there were times when my hair suffered the consequences of my heartbreak. After a breakup, I could be found at the salon asking my stylist to chop it off, as though with the hair would go the sadness. I like to think it worked.

My hair showed up for my wedding. On point and not fussy. I refused all offers of day of styling, preferring to meet my bride at the altar as I meet her most days. 

My natural self.

That’s where the lie exposes itself. 

What I’d come to believe was my natural hair was not natural at all. 

The illusion started to unravel when my scalp of steel finally buckled and burned as the relaxer was applied during a routine touch-up. I endured this painful new reality twice before admitting something had to change. But what? I surveyed my sisters and mother all of whom have stronger hair intuition and all of whom had the same advice

Cut it off. Go natural. Do it. You’ll love it.

I trusted my sisters and I made an appointment with a stylist, all while being dubious of my mother’s claims that I had beautiful curls, as I haven’t forgotten those long hot summer days between her knees crying as my hair tangled and untangled and tangled again.

The night before the big chop, my wife ran her fingers through my hair one more time as it was. My decision made, I felt dissociated from the longer relaxed locks and worried about the tight kinks clinging close to my scalp. I was going to go through with the change, but not without some trepidation.

The morning of the appointment, I arrived early and armed with some photos texted to me by one of my sisters to guide the stylist. The sun was shining, the Black Panther soundtrack was pumping through my headphones. In a matter of hours, I too would have natural hair to rival any one of the fierce women of Wakanda. 

I sat in the chair and made my case. I’m tired of relaxing my hair and it’s time for a change. Here’s what I’m thinking. And I pulled out the pictures.

The stylist frowned. You’re not going to have enough natural hair to pull that off for at least a year. What I’d suggest is a short bob. 

A short bob?! I wasn’t going back to the days of blow dryers, flat irons without a relaxer to help. I had visions of my fourth grade self emerging from the pool looking like a hot mess of a chia pet. I stalled for time. 

Maybe you could wash it first and then we can reasess? 

She relented. No sooner than the water started running, I frantically pulled my phone out and googled “short black women hair styles” and texted the best example to my sister. 

SHE WANTS TO GIVE ME A SHORT BOB! COULD I PULL THIS OFF?

An SOS if there ever was one. My sister wrote back and got me off the ledge with reassurances that I wouldn’t end up looking like a younger version of my father (who is quite handsome, but still...). By the time I was back in the chair, I had renewed determination and a new direction. A shorter direction. Much shorter. 

The stylist acknowledged that I seemed ready and got to work. We chatted, both nervous and not knowing if a freakout was imminent. 

The freakout never came, not even when the clippers buzzed close to my scalp, no long strands left to contend with. I turned toward the mirror and saw myself. Really me. My crowning glory had nothing to do with hair. I’d spent years worried about my hair acting up or standing out and in the process had lost something; a lightness; a presence driven by my spirit and not my flatiron. 

This is not to say that one can only be beautiful with natural hair and it’s not to say that I’m more deserving of attention or admiration because I got a haircut. I’m still accountable for how I walk through the world and whether it’s with grace and gratitude, my haircut is not going to make that decision. I am. I always had that power, but I couldn’t always see it. My carefully constructed coiff had made it too easy to hide in plain sight.

I’m not sure what will happen when I wake up tomorrow morning and I have a whole new level of bedhead to figure out, but today I’m pleased to say that I’m here and so is my hair.