(ThySistas.com) You know what they say, you gotta remember where you come from to know where you’re going. Well, I can remember, as early as 2 and 3 years old, being told to go and get the comb and brush and bead bucket (we used to store my barrettes and beads in an old ice cream gallon bucket) . My momma would sit down on the couch and grab this 30lb black floor pillow and sit me on top of it. She would brush and comb and part and braid and bead and grease for what seemed like days.
When she was all done I was shining like a brand new penny and every hair on my toddler head was in its place. At about 5 years old I was initiated into the bona fide big girl sisterhood of the sizzling scalps. It was Easter and that called for something special. She pulled a chair up in front of the stove, sat a few blankets on it and put me on my throne.
When that drawer with the screw drivers and loose change opened up I was slightly confused. She had joked about me having a screw loose before but at that point it was feeling like it was the other way around. Out came that black iron comb that I thought was some sort of wall hanging that she just never got around to putting up. She sat that thing on the eye of the stove as she parted and place that Blue Magic on my hair and the next thing I knew I was sweating, and my hair was silky smooth. Perm followed shortly thereafter.
When I was age 11, Janet Jackson showed up on the big screen wearing what they now call boxed braids and I was not about to be left behind. For the next 5 years I flipped between Poetic Justice and Moesha with fat individuals or my small bobbed braids. Then I was Alicia Keys or Allen Iverson with the corn rows. Until micro braids became the style to have at 17. I would sit for 10 hours at a time to get those things put in my head. My momma had started outsourcing the hair do’s long before then and made sure that I understood that SHE was going to get her money’s worth out of these. So, I wore them until the micros almost became macros.
Throughout this hair journey of frying and trying, my hair remained healthy. But then I discovered my mom’s 1977 prom picture. She had an afro that that was so perfect it looked like she took it off at night and put it in the freeze. I mean that thang was ice cold. I had to go natural, so I let my relaxer grow out and I wore my hair in an Angela Davis-esque afro. I tried to go back to the creamy crack, but nothing could compare to the feeling of my natural hair and in 2007 I began my loc journey.
At the time I was dating a guy who thought that wearing locs would mean that my hair would be dirty and smell like I played basketball wearing a skull cap all day. He wasn’t the only misinformed person that I would encounter. I worked at a medical center and I would get comment from people of all walks of life ranging from “It’s pretty now but how much longer are you going to let it grow?” to “You know you’re gonna be baldheaded when them things start falling out.” I paid no attention to any of them Now, 11 years later, my locs are waist length and healthy. I still get the “Is that all your hair?!” questions from people who have literally seen it growing over time. But I wouldn’t trade my hair story for the world. It isn’t and extraordinary story but it’s mine.
What’s your Hair story?
Staff Writer; LaMisha M. Readus
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