My mom had always tried her best to be mindful of the softer spots of my head and would listen to me if I told her I felt pain.
My mom had always tried her best to be mindful of the softer spots of my head and would listen to me if I told her I felt pain.I didn’t say anything because I was shy to be around so many new people, so I continued to cry and hope no one would notice (they did).It is an evening in December, and the light on my ceiling blends with the dark pinks of my walls to create a warm hue.
My mom had been doing my hair all my life and now we were about to put the responsibility in the hands of someone I had never even met.
I wondered if the hair stylists would gossip like they do in the movies, with their dramatic story retellings and loud laughter.
I have my white hair care kit near me compact with oil, my dark pink comb, pastel pink brush with near transparent bristles, curl & lock gel that’s always cold to the touch, and other miscellaneous, strewn about things like bobby pins and hair ties. My hands hesitantly reach for the first twist - what if I rip my hair? All the things my mom warned me against plague my mind as I start to unravel the end.
I pull the two strands apart delicately until I reach my roots.
I had convinced myself that by molding and shaping myself to be like my peers, I would achieve happiness with myself.
My wake up call happened when I had my hair straightened in sixth grade, just a few weeks before the middle school dance.
She wasn’t convinced that I was ready to take on the responsibility of managing my hair.
She was right, but I tried to get her to think otherwise.
I started growing an interest in doing my own hair in early high school.
I begged my mom time and time again to go from twists to twist out.