Short and Chic (the Bob) Long and Layered Soft Waves
Though these looks were "cute", I constantly fought an inner battle because I felt fake. Though artifical hair was accepted throughout the African American community, it never felt quite right for me.
Around this time, I started researching natural hair styles and stumbled across the Sisterlocks website. I marveled at Dr. Cornwell's length. This seemed like a good alternative. I had several friends with traditional locs, but never felt like I could go that route with my job. The pharmaceutical industry was brutal, superficial, and conservative--hardly the place to make a statement with my hair. So I started reading every website, article and book I could get my hands on about Sisterlocks. I ordered the journal and turned the pages in awe. This style was absolutley beautiful, and I could start them without cutting my relaxed ends off. All I had to do was make an appointment for a consultation...
For some reason I was terrified. What would people think? How would my hair look? I already had thin hair, so how much of a "plucked chicken" would I look like when I got them? What if I didn't like them? Questions, questions and more questions echoed in my mind. Was I ready for the psychological effects of wearing my natural hair? It took months of me going back and forth before I made my decision. However, a visit to a politcal rally (the last night Senator Barack Obama was a Senator!!) helped me make my decision.
I had almost convinced myself that I was ready for the Sisterlocks. I was sick of wearing wigs and fighting with my natural (more accurately dual textured) hair. Novemnber 3, 2008 was my turning point. I had spent all morning going door-to-door in support of Barack Obama.
After a rather busy morning, I looked in the mirror in disgust at the wig I was wearing. I knew I had to make a final decision about my hair. I had not worn it "straight" in months because I didn't have the enery to roller set it. I didn't have the time to sit in a salon for hours to get it professionally roller set, and I wasn't in the mood to fight the "you need a relaxer" battle. I opted to head to the Dominican Salon to have my hair blown out. Maybe I wasn't ready to take the natural plunge. Maybe if I saw my hair straight again, I would fall in love with it and decide not to get locked.
I went to the salon, sat in the chair, took off my wig and waited for the stylist to judge me. She didn't say a word. Unlike other stylists, she didn't seem bothered by my dual textured hair. Rather, she proceeded to subject my thin, fine, fragile hair to the metamorphosis. I sat in horror as she pulled the round brush through my hair and watched the smoke come out of he blow dryer. I could smell my hair burning. I almost cried when after that torture (I think she burned my scalp around the edges trying to straighten them) she still flat ironed my hair. Above is the final result. She looked so proud when she gave me the hand mirror to inspect her work. I felt like crying. I actually did cry on the way home. I looked at my straight hair. I did a few white girl tosses, and ran my fingers through it. Several broken hairs stuck to my palms and the car seat. I felt like I had betrayed myself. Why did I go through so much pain to alter my hair? If it was intended for my hair to be straight, it would be straight. Obviously, this was not for me.
I should have checked the weather forecast for that day! I walked out of the Dominican Salon with my faux straight hair swining in the wind and headed to the Obama rally. As we waited for the buses, the rain began to fall, and I did not have an umbrella. Within moments, my blow out blew away! By the time my bus arrived, I looked a hot mess!
As the rain continued to fall, my hair started to smell. The only way to describe the scent is "burnt". I felt ashamed. That was only heightened when a white gentlemen standing behind me in line asked his wife if she smelled something like "a tanning bed burning"... As I got on the bus, I knew that was it. It was time for me to make a change. Notice how anhappy I looked when I arrived at the rally. $75 had been totally wasted.
There is a blur in each of these photos. That was the closest I could get to who would soon be President Barack Obama. I listened in awe as he spoke that night. His grandmother had died earlier that morning, yet he found strength to continue his quest to become President. I looked around me at the different demographics represented at this crowded rally. I marvelled at Obama's ability to "beat the odds" and bring together a nation. Suddenly, I wasn't afraid to change. As I stood in the crowd with my Obama For President hat on, I wondered what it would be like to stand in the rain and not worry about my hair anymore. I wondered what it would be like to stand as an individual-to represent who I truly was and be proud of how I was "fearfully and wonderfully made". There were no more questions for me. It was time to make my consultation appointment.
OBAMA BECOMES 44TH PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES
I had a corporate meeting the very next day, and had to be up early to take an exam. Tensions ran deep at dinner that night as we watched the election coverage. I felt handcuffed and stifled. Showing my support for Obama as the only African American in the company would surely be a CLM (career limiting move), so I quietly disappeared during dessert to watch the coverage in private. I remember the tears running down my face as they announced that Senator Barack Obama had won the 2008 election. I remembered the story my grandmother shared with me when I was a little girl about the scar on her upper left thigh from where she had been knocked over by the spray of a water hose for sitting at an all white lunch counter in the Jim Crowe south. I felt proud. I felt honored, and I knew then that things for me would change as well. YES I CAN!
Amen!
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