My Hair, My Peace

I did not grow up seeing hair like mine. All my dolls had silky straight hair. The models I saw on tv had long flowing hair. My mom used to struggle to comb out the tangles in my curls. I can still feel the pain on my scalp. 

I used to think my hair was something to tame as if to control. My hair and I brawled with each other every morning and night, and I fought with all my might to conquer it. I would lose every time, leaving tears and frustrated screams fly into the air. 

One day, with my flatiron in one hand and paddle brush in the other,  I stared at myself for what felt like an eternity. My hair was worn out, breaking at the root. My curls were shriveled and dried. My hair had no life in it. I conquered my hair, and I felt guilty about it. 

My hair combated the power of my flatiron. My hair fought against the brushes. My hair rose against my attempts to smooth it down. My hair resisted my insistence to tame it. At that moment, I saw my hair differently. 

I worked to revive my hair. I took my time to care for every strand. My hair emerged revitalized, thick, and glossy. For the first time, I did not hate my hair. I adored it, and, amazingly, I adored myself.

I had a complicated relationship with my hair. I wanted hair that was straight and flowy-hair that was the standard. My hair was mine, and it did not belong to anyone else. When I appreciated my hair, I appreciated all hair, especially curly and kinky hair. In accepting my hair, it became my peace. Your hair can be your peace if you let it. 

• black hair
• hair
• natural hair