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.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
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.
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.
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