My hair journey began before I had successfully mastered the skill of subtraction. One day in kindergarten, my mom sent me off to school with cornrows in my hair and a classmate of mine came up to me and told me I looked like a boy. During those same formative years I harbored an obsession with The Powerpuff Girls. I asked my mom every week to style my hair like Blossom or even Bubbles. She opted to tell me she didn’t know how to do it because she didn’t have the heart to tell me that my hair wouldn’t fall straight the way theirs did.
These moments didn’t stick in the forefront of my mind. In fact, I didn’t even remember either of these incidents again until I was preparing to go to college. But growing up in Vermont during a period in which it was the second whitest state in the country, my relationship with my hair was always complicated. Boundaries were often overstepped when it came to my personal space and emotional well being. In class students would complain that they couldn't see the board over my hair while in the lunchroom they never thought twice about sticking their greasy, crumb-coated hands into my curls. Some of my most painful memories are those of myself at age 13 sobbing in my room because my hair wasn’t long and straight. I used to beg my mom to take me to the salon to get my hair hot combed or to allow me to chemically relax it at home. Her hair was relaxed for most of my formative years and I longed to have mine fall down from the roots like her’s, instead of sticking straight out and up. But for reasons I could never comprehend as a young girl, my mom adamantly refused to allow me to apply regular heat or chemically process my hair. In lieu of this, she began styling my hair more regularly with extensions.
By the time I reached high school, I had learned to love the process of getting extensions. Every six to eight weeks I would repeat the same routine: On Friday, I would spend all evening after school taking out the small braids and separating the synthetic fibers from my natural hair. On Saturday after about seven hours in a chair at the salon, I would emerge tender headed but with braids down to the small of my back. And Sundays would be reserved for recovery; a painkiller and a scarf tied to help the braids look more like they naturally grew out of my head. On Monday I would walk into class and twist the hair around my fingers or flip it over my shoulders with a rehearsed nonchalance. My peers would fawn over the neat, organized braids and I soaked up their praise. Most people didn’t understand the concept of hair extensions and I would often hear remarks about how incredibly fast my hair could grow or what a nice haircut I’d gotten. Instead of correcting them, I thanked them, letting them believe that my hair contained magical logic-defying properties.
Far into my college years, I relied on protective styles as my go to. When asked about my natural hair underneath, I dutifully replied that I love my hair but couldn’t be bothered to braid it before bed every night and wake up 20 minutes early to style it every morning. Box braids and crochet twists were just easier. But the truth of the matter is that my natural hair was a secret that I guarded with my life. Even once I learned to do my own hair, it wasn’t until the spring of my junior year that I stopped locking myself in the privacy of my room to complete the ritual of separating the kanekalon braids from my soft strands.
After graduation, I was determined to do something new. I felt I had outgrown my signature waves and I wanted to take advantage of a year off from acting to do with my hair whatever I pleased. In the fall of 2018 I bought two wigs, one bone straight, and the other looking like the slightly iron curled version of the first. I boarded my flight to Spain prepared to live my “good hair” dreams. After only a couple months however, I quickly realized the wig life was not for me. I didn’t feel myself at all with foreign hair literally on top of my own. I missed the way that extensions connected to my natural hair and felt like a part of me. I briefly went back to crochet twists, but by the spring of 2019 I gave it all up and began to simply learn how to style my natural hair. I wanted to commit fully to loving myself as God made me and placed me on this earth.
Upon returning to the US, I knew I had a choice to make. Going back into the acting industry meant that my hair would no longer be something I could change on a whim like lipstick. My “look” was a commitment signified in the form of $600 headshots. I knew that my natural hair served me just fine as a teacher and even in an office. But, I was anxious about the possible limitations of being cast in commercial theatre without the security of hair that was more manageable and familiar to people behind the table. Luckily, a friend of mine was able to recommend to me a wonderful headshot photographer who was eager to shoot me both with extensions and with my natural hair. We shot for about an hour with my long wavy hair, and then sat in her studio and waited while I removed my extensions, unbraided my hair, and styled it again to continue. Not only that, but there was no extra fee for the “inconvenience” of my specific need. I was treated no differently than someone who might ask to curl their hair or shave their beard mid-session. My experience with this photographer was a lesson in walking boldly in my truth instead of shrinking myself for the convenience of others. I walked out of that session with gorgeous headshots in multiple styles, but more importantly, an affirmed sense of self.
Since being in quarantine, I have had an abundance of time to explore my natural hair without having to rush to the subway or an audition. I have discovered that my relationship with my hair is never perfect and always evolving. There are days when I am excited and proud to show off the limitless possibilities of my 4c coils. But there are also days when I think about the casting directors who can’t see past the volume of my twist out or the boys who tell me that their favorite hairstyle of mine is long and wavy. There are days when I hesitate to post a picture on Instagram because there is a voice in the back of my head that says cornrows are only beautiful if they’re on the head of a Kardasian and an afro is only striking if it’s a statement made by a designer on a runway. On those days I want to run to my closet, pull out my bin of extensions, and hide behind what’s comfortable. But then I am reminded of a vision of a future where my shrunken ‘fro is just as cute as my best friend’s messy bun for brunch. A future where my cornrows are just as feminine on my body as they are on Kim Kardiashian’s. A future where I wear wigs and extensions and crochet twists not because I have a Eurocentric desire for long hair or good hair or manageable hair, but because I have a self-loving desire to explore and celebrate every avenue of what my hair can do. Until I reach that point, every flat twist, every chunky braid, every glance in the mirror will be a conscious reminder of the way I am slowly decolonizing my hair, my mind, and my heart.
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