I did it!

Wow! Has it really been two years since the last time that I wrote in this blog? Well, I finally did it. I grew my hair for over a year and counting. I last shaved my head before the Zumba Convention, August 12, 2012. I decided once again, that I wanted to at least see what my hair can look and feel like when I take proper care of it. My regimen is still evolving, and I still find some hits and misses along the way. For example, the spray I mixed up just the other day leaves my hair feeling greasy and looking dull. My hair prefers coconut oil to olive. I still don't moisturize every night as I should. Most importantly, however, I have learned to love my hair along the way.

I am still amazed by the number of compliments I receive, since long straight hair is so prized in our culture. Nevertheless, I am frequently told, "Wow! I really like your hair!" I always laugh and say, "Thanks! It's the way it grows out of my head!" Sometimes this response is met with a chuckle or a quizzical look, but I am not sure if they understand what I mean. Usually, we are complimented about a hairstyle and far less often about how our hair just naturally IS. Without products. Colors. Perms. Relaxers. Dyes. Curling irons. Accessories. Just our hair.

I am also surprised by how much my hair has grown in the last 14 months! I expected it to be ear length, at best, considering I was beginning from scalp length. Lo and behold, my hair brushes the tops of my shoulders. The last time I grew my hair long, it took me five years to reach the middle of my back. This time, I may make it in two. Which leads me to my next challenge...

That's Blood

"There's something sticky in her hair," I said, as I used a rat tail comb I brought from home to try to detangle the dry, course ends.

"That's blood," replied her mother, "They didn't wash her hair."

She hurried out of the room as three amazing ladies, Stacey, Melisa, Janna, and I prepared the body of a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl, who had committed suicide four days prior, for her viewing. Janna, her aunt, spoke to her softly as she applied dark brown powder to the girl's pale face. Melisa, who had known the girl her whole life, sang softly to her as she removed old fingernail polish from her fingers and toes. Stacey, who had admitted that she was not very good with "these things," walked around nervously asking if anyone needed anything, and I, a woman who had only had one conversation with this girl, was combing the dried blood out of the ends of her hair, which had been drastically cut due to the amount of the blood from the crash and the removal of her brain for organ donation. Shayna was the older sister of one of my eldest son's best friends. All I knew of her was the fact that she had a crush on Josiah the year they went to school together and used to chase him around the playground. We hadn't heard much about her after she transferred to another school over a year ago until Josiah came home and told us she had died. We later learned she stepped in front of a car.

When I brought Josiah over to visit his friend and pay our respects, I asked if there was anything I could do. His mom responded, "Her hair. My friend's don't know how to do her hair." Gulp.

As Shayna was a beautiful blend of Black and European, her mother's friends did not know how to do black hair. Even though I had only talked to her mother twice about sleepovers and play dates, I was invited into this intimate circle to prepare her daughter for burial. I combed. I oiled. I flat ironed. I barrel curled. I watched Shayna's mother try not to fall apart over every detail that was wrong,the color of the blush, her lips, her nails, her shirt color, the coffin lining, the mascara, the way her hair curled, her jewelery, and her belt, because it did not look like Shayna, unable to admit that this was because her daughter was dead. This was simply her corpse.

I realized in the 90 minutes that I spent doing her hair, that when your child leaves the house to go for a walk, and decides to step into traffic to end her own life, EVERYTHING becomes important. Especially their hair. As I left the funeral home, I felt as if every moment of my hair journey was preparing me for that moment. For Shayna.

"It's My Hair!"

"Whenever tackling any issue from weight loss to quitting smoking to writing my thesis for
my Master's Degree, I remember that every journey begins with a single step. When the Dali
Llama was asked how he walked from Tibet to Nepal, across the Himalayas, his answer
was 'one step at a time.'

I use these examples because the importance of a step is often overlooked because we are
so focused on the end result that occurs somewhere down the road. We often lose our
perspective about the fact that each step is what actually gets us there.

For me, gaining 100 lbs between age 25 and 29 was the best thing that ever happened for
my personal growth and development. I had always thought that I was morbidly obese at
a size 12 or 14 and had issues of non-existent self -esteem based on weight, gender,
ethnicity, and socioeconomic status just to name a few. In the eight years it took me to
lose the weight, I had three additional children, moved to the state of my dreams, found
my spiritual path, and became my favorite person. With each step and each pound lost,
I learned to also shed the emotional and spiritual toxins that had led me to medicate with
food in the first place. This definitely was a journey of self-discovery.

I have now uncovered me, what lies beneath all of layers of shielding and protection I felt
I needed from the world. My body is lighter, but more importantly, my soul is unencumbered.
And all of that began with one single step. "

This was the response I wrote to a women who asked me for some weight loss motivation.
A mutual friend had told her about me and my recent success. When I re-read what I wrote
before hitting "send," I was amazed at how I could be so open and honest with someone
that I did not know. Then I realized, this is the result of being open, honest, and accepting
of myself.

I feel like accepting my hair, and letting it grow the way in which it intends has truly been the
last and key piece to accepting myself. For richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health. In the
last week, I have done a few things that are out of the ordinary. I attended a convention alone,
I took a Capoeira class, I wore a bra top exposing my beautiful stretch marks and belly fat
during several Zumba workshops, rocked a hot pink bikini in all of my public swimming
endeavors, and gave solicited advice to a stranger. A year ago, I wouldn't have done any
of those. Six months ago, maybe one or two. When discussing this new found comfort with
a friend, my response as to why I have opened myself up to the world: "It's my hair!"
Who knew?

Anti-. Un-, or Non-.

As is the nature of such things, I had a revelation last week while completing my last set on the Assisted Pull-Up machine at my local YMCA. My chin rose above the apparatus, catching a brief glimpse of some pseudo-reality talent show featuring unknown judges with British accents, hip-hop regalia, and ethnically- ambiguous facial features, and I saw two beautiful women with bald heads.  I got that all too familiar sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I miss my bald head. I miss my bald head. I miss my bald head.

The mantra had been running in my head for a few weeks as the Arizona temperatures began their annual climb toward the 100teens and my curls became increasingly more difficult to manage. I knew the first AZ summer with hair would be my true test of the strength of my resolve. A proverbial New York city. If I can make it this summer, I can make it every summer. But lately, the heat hadn't been the problem. It was my self-esteem.

In that nanosecond between the 24th and 25th repetition, I realized that I had grown as attached to, if not more so,  my lack of hair as many women are to theirs. I didn't feel as pretty, glamorous, beautiful, whatever, WITH hair as I do without. As the inches have grown, I have developed and appreciation for the hair on my head, but not necessarily it's attachment to my face. Over the last five years, I had  an attachment to a certain look. I didn't feel as special or unique as my hair has grown.

When I had done a photo shoot for AZ Magazine in February, I made a point to shave my head. When I heard I was going to be videotaped for a Metagenics testimonial, I almost shaved it again, as if my health and wellness journey of the last decade of quitting smoking, losing 110 lbs, eating 85% vegetarian, and becoming a Zumba instructor was  reduced or less significant if I had hair. Absolutely ridiculous.

And as I began my first set on the Rear Deltoids/ Pectoral Fly machine, I realized something else. Hair. Clothes. Jewelery. Shoes, even shoes. Career. House. Car. Whatever. I had made the mistake that so many of us make and that I am sure I will make again. I had attached my personal value, worth, and self-esteem to something outside of myself, rather than focusing on the only thing that truly matters--that which is within.
Regardless of weight, struggles, triumphs, successes, failures, height, educational level, whatever, what makes me truly special, unique, and beautiful is the divine essence that is ME. Which happens to be what is truly special, unique, and beautiful about each and every one of US. No need for an Anti-hair identity. I'm amazing simply because I am. So are you.

Albertsons, Wal-Mart, and Ampro! Oh My!

It has been interesting to learn all of the unexpected lessons I have encountered on this natural hair journey. Because I do not have a particular destination, I am able to enjoy the stops and relish the glimpses I catch of the direction in which I am heading.

Seems like such a small thing, accepting one's hair and maintaining it as biologically intended. At this early stage of the game, only three months in, I expected that I would learn a lot about my haircare, but  not so much about me. I assumed that personal development and internal change would be seen in restrospect, as I reflected on the year of hair growth, rather than along each inch of the way, on any given day.

Last week, in an attempt to get the three school-age boys and Patrick to class on time, I decided to forgo make-up when geting ready to drop them off. "It's not like I am going in anywhere," I thought, "I won't even bring lipstick." Of course, we had to stop somewhere. Of course, I had to go in. Albertsons was  the stage for my au-natural debut.  An amazing feeling came over me as soon I walked through the automatic double doors and removed my Aviators. I didn't care.

What? Who? Me? I was astonished. Just over six months ago, I was in the proverbial funk because I ended up having to stay at a Dodge dealership for many hours and go into a Waffle House without lipstick. I had grabbed the wrong bag and only had a glittery Chapstick at my disposal. Yet here I was, no make up what so ever, shopping at Albertsons and beaming at my fellow customers. Did I learn from the experience that cosmetics are superficial and that true beauty lies within? Of course not. Am I now going to forego make-up in public on a regular basis? Hell no. I learned that although I have many beautiful friends and sisters who do not wear any make up, I am not one of those women. It's not because of societal standards or expectations, or a need to create an illusion of something I am not, rather I love to decorate. I love to paint. And just as there is not a wall in my red, black, purple, orange, yellow, fuschia, turquoise, lime, pink, chocolate, and cobalt blue colored house that does not bear my aesthetic, the same principle applies to my face. It's my daily canvas.

And I also learned that a little bit of self-acceptance goes a long way. While I prefer to have my powder,eyeliner, and lipstick in their designated areas before leaving the house, it's okay if they are not. I have the honor and priviledge of getting to wake up ME everyday, which far outshines cosmetics, clothes, shoes, well, okay...maybe not shoes, or anything else hat I superficially adorn myself with.

Three months of hair has taught me once again, never say never. I thought I would never shop at Wal-Mart. I thought I would never find Ampro at a San Tan Valley Walgreens, and I thought I would never be comfortable shopping sans make-up at a grocery store. I am fortunate to be wrong about all three.

A Mother of Weeds

My hair and I are definitely engaged in a serious relationship, and I am just not sure what type it is. At times, she is like another aspect of my physical self, as in one more thing I need to get perfect before leaving the house. Other times, we have a parent-child relationship, and she just won't behave no matter what. Every now and then, she is like a new lover that I love to stroke, feeling her softness underneath my fingertips, excited by the new sensations. Occasionally, she seems more like my husband during my menstrual cycle, beyond irritating and disagreeable. Whenever I try to define it, the relationship doesn't seem quite right as I feel a strong tie between my hair and me as a child.

I have learned so much about parts of me the last three years that I don't really understand how I was able to accomplish so much before being that I was so unaware of who I am. Of course, in order for me to learn more about "me," I had to stop looking for answers from an external authority and start looking from within. This wasn't an easy concept being raised in the Roman Catholic church in a less compassionate time when God was always watching, waiting to punish you for your sins, and every lie was a black mark on your heart that would eventually send you to Hell. The first step to me learning that my body has its own intelligence and ways of communicating, or that olive oil and coconut oil work best on my skin, or that my perfect alone time involves sun-bathing in the backyard listening to AMG, 2nd 2 None, and DJ Quik was learning what love meant to me, so that I could learn how to love myself.

I had spent so much of my life focusing on loving others, I didn't understand how I felt loved, although I could point to innumerable examples of when I did not. I have now realized that I feel loved when I get back exactly what I give, a skill which requires a nearly photographic memory, an almost obsessive attention to detail, the observational skills of a international spy, the ability to plan like a master strategist, analyze behavioral patterns like a psychiatrist, and anticipate situational needs like a dental assistant, all of which is utilized on a daily basis to show me that I hold a place that no other ever will. That is how I love and how I want to be loved. Obviously,  I was the best person to accomplish this. Not someone else.

From that love grew the desire to treat myself like a precious treasure, a lesson my early years of this lifetime contradicted. I was able to quit smoking after 17 years, lose an additional 65 lbs, significantly reduce my consumption of animal flesh, use food as my medicine rather than an emotional drug, and stop allowing the negativity of others to consume me because I was someone who deserved to be cared for, cherished, revered, honored, protected, and loved. Just like my hair.

I now have a bonding ritual with my hair, one that involves covering her at night and daily moisturizing with my home-blended leave in conditioner of about 1/4 C of olive oil, 1/4 cup of Garnier Fructis cream conditioner and distilled water in a large fuchsia spray bottle. I am excited to see how she will be without the deliberate abuse of heat, relaxers, dyes, or incompatible creams and shampoos. I look forward to branching out with different products and techniques as she grows, although I am still not sure how we are going to fare at least two months of temperatures in the 100teens. I do know, however, that I will appreciate her and love her one inch at a time.

I now see the type of relationship that has eluded me, mother-daughter. Time to see her blossom. No more Weeds.

Finger waves have always been one of my favorite short hairstyles to rock. Unfortunately, because I swore off relaxers years ago, I thought that I couldn't wear them, as I had been told repeatedly that you cannot finger wave natural hair. The fact I didn't have any hair on my head was another problem. After looking at a variety of videos on how to care for my hair, and utilizing a combination of techniques, I have made a startling discovery. When not robbed of its moisture, properly conditioned, and covered at night, my hair does a fair finger wave on its own. What a wonderful surprise! I also learned that the pick I use during the winter months when I have hair mutilates my scalp. Not such a wonderful surprise.

I ran the pick through my 1/2 inch twice. Moments later, the burning began. Then the throbbing. The aching. I had to take Ibuprofen for a week so that I could sleep at night, and I still have a few sores on my head to remind me why I will never use my hot pink Goody comb on another head. I was surprised at the amount of damage that was done, and again flew to YouTube to try to figure out a substitute for what I thought was a "staple" of black hair care accessories. Unbeknownst to me, a Jilbere comb is.

How could I not have known? I had used the pick many times before when I had hair, and yet I was totally surprised at the damage it caused. I then realized that in the last 5 years, my hair had not reached a pickable length very often, and my hair wasn't a part of me I was used to caring for. I probably just didn't pay attention. I also didn't know how soft my hair could be, or that Josiah's hair could every stay moisturized for that matter, until I made my own leave-in hair product using techniques and items I discovered from various YouTube natural hair divas.

In the few weeks since I decided to grow hair, I have found that I accept more and more of how I am naturally each day, rather than being focused on what I would like to change. My eyebrows, various scars, stretch marks, my short waist, long thighs, (yes, I have always thought my thighs were too long in relation to my lower legs), gray hair, whatever. They are all a piece of the beautiful puzzle that creates my body. Mine.