Day 26: Glory
Behind every Black woman is a story about her hair. As babies we learn resilience through our powerlessness to it. But we are taught that beauty is pain. Braids, detangling, perm, hot comb. We are prepared to endure. Lessons from hand to scalp on how long the journey ahead will be. And through it all, our hair grows with us. Changes with us, evolves as we do. Freedom and identity graced upon our very heads.
My journey is complex but my assigned branding seems painless. A “light skin with curly hair”. For me I am just Me. Any preconceived notion on how any Black woman relates to her hair should be expunged. Within our tresses we carry our happiest moments and our saddest days. And when I’ve had all I can take and I’m ready to cut it all off, just to feel the wind on my scalp again. She is the Best of Me, She is the Worst of Me, She is Mine.
My mother was among the ranks of legendary local stylist in her time. Stories of how in her adolescence, despite the teachings of the church, she would secretly and subtly cut at her hair, keeping it hidden from my Granny. She recognized how to harness her power at a young age; On the contrary I remember sacrificing my hair identity for acceptance when I was just in Elementary School. I’ve always been the minority. Pre School-Grad School all PWI. In Middle School my hair goals were accomplishing bone straight hair and in High School, a messy bun with fly aways. My hair was designed for neither of those styles. But to stand out as a Black girl among all white faces is to be a spectacle. To be a spectacle is a fear and a danger. My identity-based adaptability worked to “protect” me in the past but stole from me in my future. There came a time when she just didn’t look, grow, feel the same. Years of manipulation trying to fit someones standard of fairness and never my own. And because of what? A glance turned gaze? A whisper between strangers? Oh, if I could go back and tell Lil ‘Mogo’ that one day these (yt) bitches will pay to look like you.
My hair is fine like twine. Or as Star Puppy (YouTuber) says, “Sparse density.” I just simply don’t have as many strands on my head as others. My slick-backs are scalp-backs, my Afro is translucent. It is inherited and thus it is what it is. My solution? Keep every strand— forever. I am one year into my loc journey and it feels so damn good. Finding my freedom meant embracing the antithesis of every narrative I carried before. She is My Joy, She is My Pain, She is Mine.
I only want to cut my hair one more time in life— right before I die. I want to leave here just like my mama. Without a hair on my head and the weight of the world off of my back. And my daughter will shave my head like I did my mother before her. And if the Lord sees me to surpass my mother in years, my long white locs will be her inheritance. My Labor, My Love, My Essence—My Glory.
