My hair, it is the vein of my existence. For my entire life I have received comments on my hair. Most of them compliments, some of them backhanded, and some it is hard to tell. It has been both flattering and embarrassing. I have been interrupted during dates and flagged down in departments stores. I have been told it is a blessing and a curse leaving me to ponder, a curse for me or for you? I have had strangers ask if they can touch it, and I’ve had strangers not ask and touch it anyway. Women have glared at me in restrooms while others gush about how they envy it. I’ve been asked if it is hard work which I coyly respond, “No, it’s actually pretty low maintenance.” People want to know which products I use and how much, how often I shampoo and condition. I have written step by step instructions for waitresses while I am out to breakfast. They want to know how I brush it (I don’t own a brush), if I blow dry it (I don’t own one of those either), and how much I hated it when I was little (not at all).
Many are shocked to hear that I grew up liking my hair. Actually, until I hit middle school I never paid much attention to it. My mother combed it out for me when I got out of the shower, and I wore it in a braid most of the time. Occasionally it would be worn half up/half down for the school play or picture day. My mother never put products in it, and she would brush it out so it looked like a frizzy, puffy, triangle behind my head. In spite of that, I never hated it, but should I have? Was I supposed to hate my curly hair? And what does it say about me that I didn’t? Was I conceited or full of myself? Did it seem as though I was bragging? Should I lie and go along with it saying, “Of course I hated it!”
Kids sitting behind me in class would stick pencils in it to see if I could feel it and how long they could get them to stay in before slipping out. One woman asked if I ever considered relaxing it, just a little of course, to give it more length. Once, I was told it made me look hard, angry, unapproachable, and intimidating. My hair can do all that?! The rare moments I would straighten it out were always interesting. The reactions were off the charts. I was almost unrecognizable with straight hair. People couldn’t believe how straight it was, how long it was, even how the color changed. They would ask, why would you ever want to get rid of those beautiful curls? Some thought it was permanent, getting judgmental and saying in a snarky tone, I can’t believe you would do that. Then there were the other comments, the ones that stung a little- that looks great, you should wear it like that more often, don’t ever wash it, I like it better this way, you look younger, you look prettier etc. These comments left me perplexed. This wasn’t how I looked naturally. It was like someone saying that I looked better with makeup on. Like, what did you think of me before? Straightening my hair gave me complicated feelings. In a way I felt more confident, partly because I got less attention and didn’t have the looming insecurity of my big curly hair. I looked more normal, like most other girls. I blended in.
Once, on a date someone told me “I love your hair, I think it’s your best feature”. At first I took it like any compliment, I blushed and said thank you with a smile. But, then it sunk in. If my hair is my best feature, what does that say about the rest of me? An old friend of mine told me that her boyfriend said I grabbed the attention of all his friends because of my hair, it made me look exotic, and without it I would be just like any girl- regular, average, nothing special. The first thing I should have done was get rid of the friend (who tells someone that unless they are trying to hurt their feelings). Instead, I chuckled, and silently my insecurity grew. Is that true? Is my hair the best thing about me? Is it all that matters? What if I lost my curl? What would I be then? Bland? Boring? Useless? Unattractive? Just plain Ugly? What if I got cancer and all my hair fell out and grew back in straight? What would I do? Would I ever be found intriguing to anyone ever again if I didn’t have this hair? Would no one ever compliment my smile or my eyes? Does that even matter? Because it doesn’t appear they are noticed now anyway. What about, gasp, my personality?! Am I not funny enough, do I have no sense of humor? Am I not interesting enough? No wit? Nothing? Am I nothing without my hair?
My hair and I went through many phases together. There was the phase of being too insecure about it’s bigness to wear it down. I felt like there was too much of it, drawing too much attention and not in a good way. Like I was walking around with a giant clown wig on, its course wiry curls getting in the faces of people walking by. There was the phase of always wearing it down because I felt like I had to. Like people expected it. Like it was a shame not to. I felt like without it framing my face I was not much to look at. There was too much face for my comfort level. It brought unwanted attention to my nose which was slightly off centered from a break when I was little and my tiny brown eyes. I never felt I was pretty enough. I couldn’t put my best face forward, my hair was the best thing I had. Nobody will ever compliment me if they don’t see my hair, I will be exactly what people have said, boring and unnoticeable.
There were times when the compliments were too much and I wanted to hide my hair and then there were moments when I felt incredibly dependent on those compliments. Without them my self esteem plummeted. I was starting to develop a bit of a complex- a love/hate relationship with my hair. The hair that, for the most part, I always loved. And, not because other people loved it, but because I genuinely loved it. It was a part of me, like a limb. My hair fit me, it fit my personality. I wanted to love my hair but I didn’t want to depend on it to feel better about myself.
The older I get, the less entangled I get with my hair. It has taken on a more fitting, proper role. It is just my hair. I wear it up in a big puff ball on top of my head, tendrils falling down on my forehead like bangs. I play around with it more, brushing out the curls in a deliberate frizzy mane. I manipulate the curls into more of a wave for a nice change. I part it down the middle flattening out the top and drawing more attention to my prominent nose for a different silhouette. I let it get really big, the bigger the better, without worrying It will get in someone’s way or block their view at the movie theatre. I coil it up into a tight bun, I braid it. I cover it up entirely with a scarf. I do whatever I am in the mood to do on that particular day and I let it have no lengthy effect on me. It makes me no prettier and no uglier. It makes me no more confident or insecure. It makes me no less approachable or intimidating. I am not funnier with it or more serious. It does not make me sexy or plain. It makes me no more or less worthy of your attention. It makes me no more of myself or less of myself.
Once in a while
Every once in a while
I get the urge to be ugly
To shave my head
They say it’s my face
My hair makes it look angry
Every once in a while
I get the urge to be ugly
To be hard, to be edgy
I want scars on this skin
I want ink on my body
Someone said it was my best feature
Someone said I should smooth it out
Be careful what you ask for, it is longer than yours
Is it too big for you
Is it too frizzy for you
Does it scare you
That I am not like you
Is it too chaotic around my small, almond eyes
They see you
You see me coming from a mile away
Every once in a while
I get the urge to be ugly
To stop trying to be pretty
I am too clean
To small
I need meat on these bones
This body is getting smaller
Edges where curves should be
Am I waisting away
I have to let out my desires
Set them free from these cages
Set them free
I have this urge to be ugly
Because that’s what I am
When I am not trying to be beautiful
What is beauty anyway
This hair is my perfect
This hair is my flaw
This hair is my child
I am tending to it all the time
I am not my hair
I am the knot at the nape of my neck
Do I have a face
Is there someone awake inside me
Every once in awhile
I have the urge to be ugly
To check the “other” box
I am female
I am sexy
I am beautiful
I am hard
I am too thin
I am too independent
I am too inward
I am not poetic enough
I need more
Education
I need more
Words
I need more
Tools
I need more
Metaphors
I need more
I am my hair
I am wild
I am messy
I am going In different directions
I am loud like the volume
As singular as the tightly wound curl
I am stretching
When you pull me
I bounce back
Cut me
I will grow
Wash me
I am clean
Try to tame me
I will fight it
I am not commanding your attention
I am demanding, look away
I am not my hair
Picture me
Bald
Every once in a while
