I Am Not My Hair

The stylist, Roger, picked my hair out and took out his scissors.

I looked down and saw the first clump of hair fell onto my smock.

"What are you thinking?" my sister, Russatta asked.
"That it's too late to turn back now," I said, halfway joking.
"No it's not," she quipped. "You can always get up and run out of here. I'll catch up with you around the corner."

But we both knew I wouldn't move. This was a day who's time had finally come.

I made the concious decision to go natural during a visit to Michigan last Thanksgiving. I was in town for my sister's funeral and another sister was putting a konk in my head so I'd look decent for the ceremony. I sat at our dining room table, forehead and ears slathered in Vaseline as she dug gloved hands into the container of chemicals. I tried to figure out how I'd keep the style up when I got back to Rhode Island, seeing as how I'd yet to find a stylist there.

For the last 22 years, I'd worked hard to make my hair, essentially, a blank slate. My strands have been fried, permed, braided, curled, cut, twisted and wrapped for years. It hung listlessly from my head, with no identity or personality of its own. I'd spend hours flat ironing my hair to stave the dreaded naps away. And as a result, everyone loved my hair. Guys ran their fingers through it. Girls complimented me on the sleekness of my wrapped hairstyle.

Everyone loved my hair but me. I longed for hair that said something. That embodied who I am as a person. That wouldn't require as much maintenance.

To me, going natural was the solution. My hair would be free to do what it pleased while my limp bone straight tresses would be replaced with thick kinks or curls in a style all my own. In January, I lobbed off five inches or so of my hair to ease myself into a shorter style. The months that followed were filled with flat ironed days, roller set nights and braided weekends.

By Saturday, I'd had enough.

It was raining in NYC and the natural set I'd been rocking for the last week was done with. By the time we got to the salon, my slight waves had turned into a frizzy poofball.

"Yeah, it's time to get this handled," I told Russatta as we walked back to the car from the event we'd just attended. "My hair is a mess."

We hopped in the car and headed to Follicles in Brooklyn to make my transition. By then, I'd already heard words of encouragement from Russatta and one of her friends, who'd gone natural recently. They told their war stories and joked about how they bought huge earrings and lots of makeup to make sure no one mistook them for a girl shortly after they began rocking the naturals.

I didn't really ease my fears, but just made me more anxious. I sat down in Roger's chair and told him I wanted to cut all of the perm off. He said little and soon, the floor was littered with clumps of my hair.

Russatta was sitting in the chair to my left, for moral support.

I couldn't bring myself to look in the mirror. What if I looked like a boy when he finished? My head is too big to carry a natural, I reasoned. What will they say back in Rhode Island?

Then, Roger spun me around. He was finished. I glanced in the mirror. A woman with a tiny afro peered back at me. It didn't look strange. It actually looked pretty cool. Her head really wasn't that big - well, at least the hair didn't look bad.

We went over to the shampoo sink and Roger began washing my tresses. At one point, I lifted my head up slightly, so he could get a better hold of my hair, just as I'd always done at the hairdressers. Mid-lift, I remembered I didn't have long hair anymore. I gently laid my head back into the sink.

An hour later, I emerged from the salon with a head full of comb twists. The damp New York air felt odd on my scalp. I rubbed my head, fingering the small coils that rested there. This would take some getting used to.

I'm glad I cut my hair. It was something I needed to do for me. Since I've shown my new look to friends and family members, for the most part, the response is the same.

"It looks great!" they exclaim. "It's so you!"

I thank them and smile, wondering in the back of my mind exactly what that means. Then I dismiss the thought and run my fingers through my hair, fingering the small coils now resting there.

(Captions, top to bottom: "I am not my hair" - otherwise, I'd be at the bottom of someone's trash bag in Brooklyn; Russatta and I just before I got my hair cut; Me, post cut, rocking a t-shirt with my new daily affirmation.)