My hair
story starts off where most little black girls’ do. Stuck on a pillow in
between my mother’s knees holding me still with all the strength in her thighs
as she raked the comb through my “knotty, nappy, relentless, unmanageable,
makes no sense how...” hair. Mothers hit a breaking point where too much
squirming and crying on top of 5 broken blow dryer attachments and 7 toothless
combs equals a nuclear meltdown. “I give up! You’re getting a perm TODAY!”
As a little girl, a
perm meant being beautiful. Not only would I look like my mother, but I would
be just as pretty as the little girls on the Just4Me box. I would fit in with
my friends at school, who by fifth grade, were veterans at the hair salon. I
hated my puffy braids that would unravel by lunchtime, knowing another late
night session of greasing and styling was ahead of me. That all changed after
my first relaxer. The feeling of walking out of the house after 4 hours of
frying my hair to silky perfection was indescribable. I walked taller, the sun
was shining, and the wind was gently blowing just for me. I felt like a movie
star.
As a teenager, I
became the long hair girl with the side part and the swoop to look just like
Aaliyah. By the time I reached sixteen I began to wonder, if I am always trying to look like someone else, then what do I, Tara,
really look like? I learned how to cornrow and began wearing them just to
change my look, but I didn’t feel the same confidence as before with my long
flowing hair. The one time I did try to step out of the box with a roller set I
was met by my peers disapproval of my large, fluffy hair and I immediately went
home and demanded the curls be ironed out. It was then that I began to allow
society and others view of me guide my hair decisions. Curls were forbidden and
if my hair was more than beveled at the ends it was brushed out and wrapped up
for a better tomorrow. In my world, the straighter my hair was the better.
Towards the end of my
high school days, the itch to find my hair identity returned and I began to
beg, literally, for someone to cut my hair. I was met with exasperated looks
and questions of my sanity because only a fool would want to cut off a long,
thick mane like mine. So I would walk out the salon with the same, safe side
part and the joy I use to feel after a touch up began to slip away. It seemed
as though no one supported my desire to define my own beauty, so everyone’s
opinion overruled my own.
After my freshman
year in college I had my first taste of change on my hair journey. I had my
aunt pile my hair on top of my head and cut it off. It was exhilarating! To be
freed from the chains of my hair. I loved my shorter hair and as it grew back I
knew I would never be happy in my old identity again. It was then that I
decided I was done with expensive relaxers that scarred my scalp and left me in
pain. That emptied my already meager bank account and that made me feel like a
drone to what we are fed that “beautiful” looks like. Once I made up my mind,
there was no going back. People laughed and made sly comments, people told me
how I would be so pretty if I “did” my hair, but I didn’t care. My hair was
breaking, dry, and begging for mercy but I refused to go back and continued to
apply perm knowledge on my transitioning hair.
Two years ago, I
stumbled upon a natural hair blog by the name of CurlyNikki. That was the day
my life transformed. Not only did I learn what I was doing wrong to my hair, I
learned that I could make myself feel the same way I did climbing out the chair
after a fresh perm. I twisted and braided, bantu’ed and roller set, and fell in
love with my hair and myself at the same time. I found what made me special,
what made me happy, and most importantly, what Tara looks like.
Has going natural helped you find your inner fierceness, beauty, peace? Let's talk about it!
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