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.

3B, 3A, and 4C

"It's almost like I watched a video of a surgery and realized why I could never give myself an appendectomy. It's really complex."

Patrick laughed,  and I was happy that he understood the bizarre metaphor I used to describe the hair care regimens I had discovered on YouTube. Watching a few videos about how to properly tie a scarf at night,
co-wash my hair, diagnose my curl pattern, and moisturize my curls literally made me cry. I felt as if I had finally gained access to an exclusive club to which I had always been denied.  I ordered a few books and began researching products, starting with the grocery store brands and common household items. For the first time in a long time, maybe ever, I was excited to care for my hair. By days end, I had a new type of conditioner, an anti-frizz serum, and a pink spray bottle to mix my own concoction in. That night, I washed my hair sans shampoo, conditioned, deep conditioned, moisturized, sealed, and covered my 1/2 inch anxious to uncover the results the next day.

And here I am, at 5:30 am on a beautiful Arizona morning, stroking my small small amount of hair, amazed at how it feels. When I first removed the silk scarf that I was still surprised stayed in place as I slept, my hair looked darker to me, almost as if it had been dyed. When I ran my fingers through, I realized why. My hair was swollen with moisture. And once again, I had tears.

I never really sought out advice for care of my hair because I had always been too embarrassed and didn't know what questions to ask. I felt as if my ignorance would be laughable because everyone knows how to properly care for their hair. I had my fill of teasing about my hair and wasn't going to invite in more, so I stayed ignorant until yesterday. Today, I had so many tears.

My hair had always been another mark of my inferiority. My hair and my skin. Being raised in an entirely European American environment with absolutely no favorable images of black women available combined with repeated occurances of boys telling me I was "ugly," "dirty," or "gross," I didn't see the beauty of my skin tone until much later in life. In addition to not liking the color, I also disliked my actual skin. Always rough, dry, cracked, and bumpy. I did not know that was the condition of my skin when not properly moisturized and not my skin in general. I learned to love it as I learned to care for it. My hair is the last piece of me I need to learn to love. Well, and maybe my stretch marks.

My initial metaphor was incomplete. Learning to grow healthy hair is more like embarking on a new spiritual path. I am traveling to an unknown destination. Step by step. Loving myself more than I thought possible inch by inch.

The Tortoise and the Hair

As a woman whose hairstyle of choice has been a shaved head since 2005, I often get asked why I ever did it in the first place. I have given one of two answers, depending on who was asking the question. I had read an article about a woman with cancer who missed her father's funeral because she had spent all of her money on a wig. As I read the article, I shook my head. Of all things to care about. Hair? My next thought was that maybe if more women rocked a shaved head, an idea I had toyed with since I heard Camille Cosby shaved her head when she turned 50 on "Oprah," these women might be empowered in some small way.

The day I actually decided to do it, however, was the day that I found out that my absentee father, who I saw once Memorial Day weekend with when I was six years old and thought was dead for many years, was now a crack addict with possibly seven to ten other children that he sired. He told my mother he got a vasectomy after I was born, so I always thought I was the youngest of three. My hair was past my shoulders, and I had been progressively cutting it shorter. That day, I decided to shave it all off as the ultimate release of the burden of "father." Freedom. The act was polyvalent. I looked in the mirror not sure what to expect, and was more than pleasantly surprised. I ABSOLUTELY LOVED IT. No other style had ever suited me so well. It wasn't difficult to rid myself of something I was never attached to in the first place.

And so I've keep it for almost six years. There have been a handful of times that I would grow it back when the  weather grew colder, and I would end up shaving it off before the spring flowers began to bloom. Every other day, while listening to ODB's "The Stomp," I would take the clippers to my head and erase the cares of the previous day. I was born again anew. Women  would often say that I had taken my power back, and I didn't see it that way at all. I had taken my freedom back. Freedom from what had been a burden.

Hair was never "my beauty" the majority of my life. My curls, or rather lack there of, were the source of ridicule, enbarrassment, pain, and shame. As my German-American mother had absolutely no idea how to care for my hair, she washed it, brushed it, and used the same styiling products that she would use on her own. I remember my scalp burning after being washed and me scratching it with a brush for relief, which of course, only made matters worse. The end result, my hair looked like a cotton ball and the kids at my 99.9% European American catholic school called me "Weeds," when "nigger" wasn't being used. My hair stayed a cotton ball until I cut it shorter, and it became a mushroom. I kept the mushroom throughout high shcool.

As I grew a little older, I kept my hair short because it was easier to try to keep moisturized using the two products my mother's boyfriend told her to use on my hair: Afro Sheen and Pink. Neither of them worked well, and yet they were better than the mousse or hair gel I had been using. When I finally did grow my hair long the first time at the age of 20, I ended up with a lot of breakage because I constantly kept it pulled back as I still didn't know how to have my curls stay defined and moisturized. I cut it short. Or rather the lady at Supercuts would as I still followed the habits I was raised with. Seeking out a black hair stylist to cut my hair never even occurred to me, or my mother. When I was 25, I decided to grow my hair long once again. This time, my best friend had completed cosmetology school, and I discovered relaxers. My hair was relaxed, braided, crimped, flat-ironed, and bantu-knotted for many years at my weekly shampoo and set appointments. She gave me advice here and there about how to care for my relaxed hair, but as her mother was Native American, she had never cared for her natural hair properly either, and preferred to wear weaves and wigs. My hair was past my shoulders once again, with a lot of breakage from the torture it had endured. So I cut short. Then I shaved it.

Six years later, I have had my picture taken by mothers of children with alopecia and lukemia as well as women surviving cancer. I have also lost 105 lbs over the last nine years with my love of Zumba being the impetus for finally hitting a healthy weight this month. My first Zumba instructor was recently diagnosed with cancer, and when she had to shave her head, she thought of me. When I taught my first Zumba class, I thought of her. I felt like the circle had been completed. My shaved head did make a  difference to many women. As the AZ temperatures began to rise, I ran my fingers through my 1/2 inch of two-month-old hair, and pondered its fate.

When anyone asks me how long it took me to lose my weight, I give only one answer: "Nine years, during which time I had three children in a row. I am definitely the Tortoise." In those nine years, I healed aspects of my self I didn't know existed, learned more about me than I ever knew, moved to a new state of being, quit smoking, embraced a spirituality, became a vegetarian, and became a Zumba instructor of all things. I have now decided to grow my hair the 3rd time. This time, properly cared for and nourished, so that I can see after 37 years how my hair should look.

As I know little, I began researching care for my hair yesterday, and have learned more about it than I have known my entire life. I have alsodiscovered that I am not the only woman with curly hair that doesn't know how to properly care for it, regardless of ethnicity. Moved by the sharing of stories, tips, tricks, and instructons by many women, I decided that I would record, in discursive form, my journey to heal this last piece of childhood sadness, as I cultivate new growth both within and without. For Weeds.