Falling in Love.

I promised myself that I'd write and publish new stuff here, weekly. I am human and I am tired, but I am not a quitter. So, please enjoy this piece that was originally for my writing class #Recycling.

For a really long time, my hair had been relaxed. By ‘relaxed’, I mean ‘straight’, ‘tamed’, ‘calmer’ or, any other word you can think of that denotes ‘easier’, ‘less stressful to maintain’, ‘better to handle’. Unfortunately, the latter words were terms I used to refer to my mane. That was then. It was a different time.

As a woman of black descent, my hair being defined by those terms was not automatic. It took an intentional process. For me, that process included scheduling a convenient date, purchasing the best brand of relaxer and preparing my hair to be combed repeatedly by leaving it untouched for at least a day prior to the salon appointment. Then, there would be a silent prayer to God requesting that the appointment went seamlessly, another prayer that the salon would be almost empty, and a whispered thank you upon arriving at the salon to meet these requests met. But the bigger part of this process was the fervent hoping.

In those ‘relaxed’ times, I cried very often. Every visit to the salon came with a guarantee that my weakness will be observed by everyone in the salon. Reader, I would CRY. I do not recall an exciting time I had in a relaxer appointment. There were probably fun times, good times even. But they are difficult to remember. Every single time, at the salon, I would cry as I hoped that the end results of all these actions would result in beautiful tame hair. From the moment the hairdresser picked up the tub of the relaxer to scoop from it, my nose would get a whiff of the torture to come, and anxiety would immediately set in. As she combed my hair, my scalp would hurt already from this preliminary step. My hands would reach for the arm rest of the chair, acting as an anchor for me. My ears would hear the chatter in the salon slowly come to a halt, as my eyes would see in the mirror, the white relaxer chemical go on my hair and the hairdresser “kneading’ my head as a method of application. The only sense that escaped this torturous moment was my sense of taste. I like to believe that my eyes took its slot and performed two functions instead. The seeing, and then the crying.

All that was 3 years ago. One day in May 2021, I made the solemn promise to never relax my hair again. I no longer wanted to repeatedly expose myself to a situation where palpable hurt and anxiety were an integral part of the process. I am aware of the sentiment that beauty is pain and I agree with it. But there is pain that is minor, occasional even. Not integral to the process, not foundational to the beauty. An igniting kind, a flourishing kind. The kind that leaves room for free growth and blossoming, and does not induce crippling anxiety. That was what falling in love sometimes felt like for me. Often painful motions I had made to be seen, heard and accepted. And just like that day in May 2021, I decided these motions to taming will cease. My hair and I will be as they are in their full glory. No taming, no subjugation, no subduing.

My hair is now in locs. I started it last month and it doesn’t look perfect yet. It’s far from it, actually. It is short and wild and growing slowly. I’m very excited about it. Eager to see how it’ll grow and flourish. It requires its own care system, but it is bereft of pain. It is easier, it is simpler, it is freeing. This is how falling in love now feels like to me.