Relaxer? When Was My Hair Ever Tense?

As of recently, I've been desiring to make a few necessary adjustments in my life. It's often said that when a woman is looking for change, she often does something drastic to her appearance. I've come to realize that I am no exception; for the past few months I have been experimenting with makeup, altering my exercise patterns, and monitoring my eating habits in order to a make a healthier and more improved me. Amongst my efforts to tone up my arms and become a disciplined pescetarian, I have also shifted some of my focus to my hair. On Valentine's day, it will have been two years since I straigtened my follicles with the aid of a relaxer. Since then, I have sprouted a head full of kinky, curly, wavy naps that I have fallen madly in love with. However, I am in the process of discovering all of the things that I can do with it... when I was considering growing out my relaxed hair, or "going natural" as it is often referred as, I was convinced by my natural sisters that unprocessed hair is just as versatile as it is when it is chemically altered. I had no reason to believe otherwise as most of them sported twists, locs, braids and puffs while managing to look nothing short of fabulous. Some even played around with hair color. After much consideration and angst, I ultimately clipped off the relaxed ends of my coif and began the long and arduous journey of accepting the uninhibited and unaltered hair that was undoubtedly mine.

This past Friday I entrusted my hair to my good friend who knows how to work the mess out of her curling iron. For three hours, she combed, parted, conditioned, blowdried and pressed my hair until it laid as flat as it did when I was still rocking a perm.
The scene took me back to the kitchen salon of my momma's friend that she faithfully sent me to every two weeks in order to have my roots touched up and tamed. In my family, straight hair was the status quo. Anything else outside of that was considered untamed, unkempt and uncouth. My mother's family bore a long line of women with naturally curly and wavy hair. The introduction of my father's DNA into the blood line yielded something that they were definitely not used to: a head of hair that did not obey with minimal combing and prodding and defiantly refused to respond to light heat. My mother was so taken aback that she administered my first relaxer when I was two. Despite having a perm, my hair was too thick and too coarse to make life for a working mother easy. Many an afternoon I was hoisted into a high chair and subjected to the torture of having someone tug at my scalp until I was driven to the point of tears. When I got older I was introduced to a pressing comb that burned my ears and forehead more times than I was comfortable with. When I got older I eventually took my hair into my own hands and began to relax, color, curl and press my hair on my own. Despite feeling like my scalp had been doused with gasoline and set aflame, I persisted with my relaxers as I felt that it was the typical instrument that ensured maintenance of the hegemonic European standard of beauty that is pervasive in today's society. It wasn't until my sophomore year in college that things eventually came to a head. While waiting on a bus stop to go home, I ran my fingers through my newly permed strands and clumps of hair came out. I freaked out. I came home, looked in the mirror, and noticed that several parts of my hair had broken out, leaving behind random patches of unrelaxed roots (go figure). You would think that would have been my last relaxer ever. I went on to perm my hair several times after that until one day it finally hit me. Everytime I visited the "ethnic care" aisle in a drug store or beauty supply I felt that I was perpetrating in a major way. Here I was, just as Black as I wanna be, buying a box of cream that made my scalp feel as if someone was ripping the flesh from my head in hopes that I could have long flowing locks like the smiling woman on the box. What was I hiding?

During my "transition" phase from relaxed to natural hair, I learned that my hair was interesting. It spiraled, it kinked, it curled. It grew out and not down. It was totally different from anything that I'd ever known my hair to be. The crinkly texture felt good to the pads of my fingers. For the first time in my life, I truly felt that I loved my hair. I did not cut my hair for political reasons, but over the course of my transition I began to develop an appreciation for a hair that is indigenously African. Coarse hair is scientifically explained as a trait inherent amongst people living in warmer regions as it provides a way for cool air to escape from the scalp. It was a statement worn by people (including Caucasians) in the early to middle half of the 20th century for reasons that bordered between protest and fad. As the smoke billowed from my friend's curling iron, I felt that I was, in a way, doing the same thing that I did when I chemically straightened my hair. Hiding something. Fighting something that is naturally a part of me. In the three days that my hair has been straightened, I have been dodging raindrops, gauging humidity, and wrapping my head in plastic before I jump in the shower all in an attempt to prevent my hair from evidencing the fact that it is indeed nappy. Without sounding vain or boastful, I am also struggling with all of the new attention that I am getting from the opposite sex. When I am wearing my trademark puff, my compliments are mainly generated from women and men who have an appreciation for women with natural hair. Typically they'll walk past and utter "I love your hair, sis" without breaking their stride or pausing to hear me say, "Thank you." With my hair being pressed, I am noticing that I'm getting more head turns, car honks and "Hey baby, what's your name?"s from all kinds of men. It's really awkward and it makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. I'm always self conscious and it just doesn't feel like the real me. Although it's been nice having the reminiscent experience of running my fingers through my hair, I have just come to terms with the fact that my hair is what is intrisically me. We'll see how long the feeling lasts.

PEACE