My good hair meant no kiddie perms and hours of my childhood neglected for the obligation of sitting in a salon chair. No scabs on my head from burns that occurred from a relaxer that stayed in too long. Yes! No bald spots from the same process done by a hairdresser that didn't know how to apply it in my hair or mishaps at home. I never had to watch for my new growth or try to hide it before my six to eight weeks. No burn marks from a hot comb whose steam I can still feel by my ears, edges and the back of my neck in the kitchen. No more crazy positioning while my mom, aunty, cousin, sister, next door neighbor or grandma try to catch all the naps with that damn hot iron comb. A comb that was heated by the flames of a gas stove for that matter. I was tender headed anyway.
My good hair is naturally black and curly. It becomes bone straight with a great blow drier and curling iron. I've let it grow to touch my backside in the past. I did not have to be forced into what seems to be a lifetime commitment to relaxers. A decision too often made before one really wants to agree or disagree.
I attended predominantly white schools in the suburbs of Connecticut during my elementary education. I can not think back to a time when it bothered me that my hair wasn't blond or bone straight. Probably because I had length to my lox. My mother was a hairdresser and I literally spent a lot of my childhood in her salon. We even went to Queens most weekends to sit in another family member's salon. At my mom's, I did my share of basing scalps in preparation for relaxers. My good hair lead to me maybe wanting one. There was a time when I at least thought about getting, Vigorol, a liquid relaxer on a six month basis. My mom and sisters have similar hair. My mom used Vigorol before. My sisters grew up on the heated isle of Jamaica and relaxed theirs every six months and it helped to combat the frizz created by humidity.
I was okay with my peers calling me coolie at boarding school in Jamaica. As I got older, the American black girls found a way to put their hands in my head even if they didn't know me. Others asked first. Some didn't like me because of it. They would either pet my head like an animal or finger my scalp while admiring my hair or asking me if it was real. I've had girls tell me that my hair wasn't real even if I offered them a feel. Do you remember all the different version ponytails females rocked in the early Y2K? Most used weaves but I was able to create the same effect all natural.
Everyday is not a good hair day. I've grown to appreciate the natural curls that I can rock in the warm humid weather. I get it in during the winter with the layered cut, roller set and doobie wrap. I will first you to a Dominican salon any day. Black stylists can't manage my hair or really straighten it without trying the hot comb. I've experimented with different colors with less breakage and damage that occurs on processed hair.
Hair has always been a conversation piece and it infiltrates one's self esteem and life plans. Some females scout out good hair mates for the sake of their future generations. Hair is an extension of who you are, what fashion statement you want to make, what mood you are in and the legacy you'll pass down to your offspring. I love and appreciate all hair of any length and texture. I admire it and acknowledge that every once in awhile I imagine that I might wake and want to switch with you. But just for that day. I love the struggles we have - it builds character.
Shout out to the West Indians that say they "'cream" (not relax) their hair. Chris Rock didn't touch upon that.
Miss** 2009
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