Last night, I had an intense hairgasm.
No lie. I felt vibrant tingling radiating from my brain through each hair follicle.
All I could do is lean my head back as I sat on the couch and let my my eyes roll in the back of my head as I closed them, a lazy smile forming on my lips.
"Did some man come over and deeply and tenderly massage her scalp?" you may be asking yourself. "Did she get a hold of some groundbreaking hair conditioner that hasn't hit the market yet?" you might ponder.
None of the above.
I simply cut a sew-in weave out of my head, by myself, and never have I felt more proud, more liberated.
You see, my sister got married to the man of her dreams a little over a week ago. Of course I had to look spectacular, being the maid of honor and all. When our descendants are looking at these hundreds of digital photos years from now, I'm going to need for them to say "Aunt Charmin/C.J./Mommy/Grandma was a FOX! She was HOT STUFF back in her day!"
And of course, in the eyes of some (particularly black folks), a woman just isn't as beautiful if she doesn't have some Remy (read: long flowing hair) down her back.
It took me a while to decide which way I wanted to go regarding my hair for the wedding: I was torn between completely chopping it off into a cute Halle Berry-type style and a weave. Believe it or not, I have been anti-weave for quite some time. But wanting to make a splash for the wedding: and did I mention, pictures and a chance to wear makeup and really doll up, I went the route that I usually don't take.
So, I did it. After much discussion with some of my family and friends, I opted for the weave route. I almost excitedly called the hairdresser and arrived for my appointment a week later with nearly a hundred dollars worth of weave in my hands.
And after a few more dollars, I was pretty much initially pleased with the end result a couple of days before the wedding:
And, another preliminary shot I sent out to my sister and a couple of other friends to see if it met their approval:
And from the stunned recipients were "Wow" and "Ooooh, I love it!" and "Nice!"
So to avoid the "sore head" associated with the sewing in of weave onto your own head, I opted to get my hair done Thursday, a couple of days before the Saturday wedding. Nicely enough, the hairdresser threw a few curls in on the morning of the wedding:
Guests at the wedding who hadn't seen me in the while would say "oh, you look so nice" and actually "you're beautiful!" Which was to be expected. After all, I'm not a half bad looking chick in the first place and I had a nice rare faceful of carefully applied makeup.
But what really got my goat is what happened after the wedding. Glad that all the preparation was finally over, I went on about my merry way and enjoyed a couple days off, ran errands, all that boring type of stuff. While out and about, I got something that I usually don't get unless I make an effort.
Some "holla."
Holla, you ask me? (Black) men were making it a point to wave at me and took time to say hello. Something else that usually never happens, happened. A nice-looking brotha driving a bright red car with Kentucky plates pulled up right alongside me. Given that it's hot as hell, windows on both our cars were up. He gazes at me for a moment, smiles broadly, and puts his hand up to his ear in a gesture "can I call you?" he mouths.
Then I do something that folks aren't going to believe I did. Even a part of me still can't believe I did it. I smile back at the guy, point at an imaginary ring on my left hand, tell him sorry. He shrugged in a friendly manner, smiled again, and waved goodbye.
"Wow Charmin, you're an idiot. No wonder you're single," some of you may think. And trust me, for a moment, I did feel like some type of irrational idiot for letting a potential hottie drive on down MLK out of my sight. But you've got to understand. What the guy was looking at, what all the other guys are looking at, is my hair. I can't help but to think, would he have even paid me one bit of attention had I not had the Remy weave cascading and loose around the tops of my shoulders? Forgive me, I'm going through some kind of something in my life right now where I don't want a significant other or children because I'm selfish right now: but when I do want a guy to pursue me, I want it because he is enthralled with my natural self: and not by a fifty-dollar pack of hair that I bought from one of the Asians, as mentioned in Chris Rock's movie "Good Hair." I want for a man to accept me completely for who I am, what I am, in my most natural, purest form.
And someone may think, why would that even make a difference? And nobody more than me knows why it, hair, would make a difference.
For as long as I can remember, I have had a hate-hate relationship with my hair. The same could probably be said for many, many black American women. I think if you asked me as a child "would you like for your family to be rich forever" or "would you like to have long hair for awhile," you better believe I would've picked the latter.
I remember being a child and tying a small short or other item of clothing on my head and pretending it was my hair. I remember playing with Barbie, wishing so deeply that my hair could look like hers. Not necessarily blond, but just long and swingy. Not short and kinky as mine was and always has been. One thing I learned early, dudes dig chicks with long hair, no matter how plain or ugly or otherwise lacking they may be.
Through school, through the years, the wish remained the same. Worst of all was the junior high years. Imagine the pain that was mine in seventh grade. Not only was I flat-chested, skinny as a beampole, and horribly shy, my hair was the result of overprocessing, jerry curling, pressing and hot combing.....and last but not least, pure genetics. Apparently, I have two parents with kinky hair, so to expect my hair to come out bone-straight and flowing was kind of ridiculous, and I knew that even as the bright and above-average kid that I was.
So, teasing was inevitable. I am one of those unfortunate folks who didn't forget the bullying and remarks made to me decades. As I sit here thinking about it, I know it would take me too much time to list each remark made to me about my hair through the years that hurt my feelings. Not amazingly, most of all these stinging comments were made by black peers, some adults, and even family at times. I was one of those kids who just wanted to be friends with everyone, just wanted to get along. That didn't stop the mean-spirited girls at Princeton from using me as a target for their insecurities. Of course, I didn't know that then. One girl came up with a rhyme about Apple Jacks and Charmin not having no hair in the back and another girl in high school snuck up behind me and sprayed
something in my hair. To that day, I don't know if it was moisturizer, detangler, who knows. All I remember is some of the class laughing because they apparently were in the joke and since I was so non-confrontational at the time, I don't think I even turned around to confront my bully and break her neck like I would have these days. I simply reached for a tissue or napkin to wipe whatever-it-was out of my hair. Mind you, I never personally did anything or say anything to provoke this type of treatment from these mean girls. Just my existence seemed to give them a reason to attack me. I was clearly NOT one of the preferred light-skinned, long hair prototypes who were the popular, the prized, as I quickly learned. But even back then, what I coudn't understand is why these black kids hated me? Simply for not having long hair?
Jumping back and forth as I usually do, did I mention that I saw the "hair sprayer" at my sister's wedding?!?!? I admit that I felt some kind of way about this tormentor from long ago, who obviously knows someone that my sister or her new husband knows, getting an up-close glimpse of a special intimate time in my family's life. She requested me once upon a time on FB, I accepted so she could see how fly I am these days, but then she got rid of me, thanks to my tongue that easily offends people. I hope she was, and I hope she was even more offended of how good I looked at the wedding and how close and wonderful my family is. And that I recovered from her hairspray attack quite beautifully.
I know that seemed unnecessary: but maybe give the reader a glimpse into how such insecurity about hair is created, where it starts, and who it starts with.
Because of the unaccustomed admiration and attention that my weave brought me, I started to have hard feelings toward it. How could I ever be proud of something that's not actually growing out of my own head? Not only that, good Lord, was my hair braided as tightly as it had ever been. Not good for someone who's a tenderhead in the first place. The hair sewed to my hair in tracks became one of the most unnatural, uncomfortable experiences I've ever had. The hairdresser certainly did her job, nice and kind as she was, she was also just as efficient. This weave was sewn in tightly and it wasn't going anywhere. As she kindly, but tightly dealt with my head, she reminded me that it could last up to three months and that I can wash it was I would my own hair. Initially, I'm all like "great," because she was so nice and professional. However, a week later, after a week of pushing strands of probably what's some poor Asian woman's hair out of my eyes, out of my face, feeling like I have a helmet on my head, feeling humidity between the sew-in and my scale, and worst of all, the sew-in pulling the edges of my hair so tightly it caused so much pain, itching, and even a smidge of bleeding from my scratching for relief, I had a choice to make. It was either go back to the hairdresser and pay her to take it out, have a friend take it out or.........(cue scary violin music) take it out myself!!!!
And this is where I learned a small, but important lesson, that I can do anything if I simply put my mind to it.....or get fed up about it first.
I am smiling because that is the first moment that the dreadful weave was out of my hair, my scalp was taking its first hits of oxygen it had within a week, and I was feeling that blissful tingly feeling all over. It was if my hair, all crinkled from the loosened braids, was collectively saying thank you, oh thank you.......and in turn, I apologized to my hair for traumatizing it in that way. Sounds silly, but I did. After work, I just couldn't take it anymore. I was tired of my edges being pulled on, tired of the irritation that is still there at this moment. I took a small sharp kitchen knife and some scissors and went to town,carefully cutting tracks and the thread that held the hair to my head for the last week. I was so excited and elated by the process that I accidentally sliced my own finger a little chopping and hacking away at the hair. I promised myself at that moment that never again would I have a weave glued, sewn in, braided, or added to my head in any manner. I spend the remaining two hours last night running my fingers through my hair, savoring the texture and the shortness of it, just feeling so good that I had gotten rid of that weave. I thought to myself, a good washing and conditioning would complete this process, but I just sat there and enjoyed and appreciated my hair as it was, something I can't say I've ever really done in my life. Thanks to society, thanks to teasing, bullying, and insecurity. It felt so good: the way my scalp breathed with relief and the way I felt about myself in general, that I've reached a place in my life that I'm so comfortable with myself, how I look, and who I am.
Needless to say, I had the best night of sleep that I've had in about a couple of weeks, and woke up running fingers through my still crinkled, napped-up-from sleep hair. While showering and shampooing my hair, quite a few strands came out and it worried me a bit, the casualties of war of the slow and deadly assault of human, yet FAKE hair. Who would ever know that a sew-in could be so damaging? Lesson learned: if it has to be added as an enhancement, it probably ain't right. Nor healthy. All I can think of is how much discomfort I'd be in and how much damaged I would've caused if I would've left that overpriced rat's nest in my head until October, let alone another week or two.
Which brings me to the whole natural thang. To go natural or not to go natural? Wa-lll, there's no perms in my head for a while, thanks to the scabs and irritation still healing around my edges. Even so, this is the first time in life I'm not breaking my neck in attempt to apply my montly dosage of creamy crack. Progress takes time, I suppose. I think in time, I might be still hesitant on going natural, but a short cut is definitely in my future.
I shall keep you posted, thanks for listening. Maybe you too, can save your scalp from weave today.
I am not my hair. It is so much more than a song. It is a way of life. I am just glad that I'm at a level of self-acceptance that sets me apart from those who need weave to feel like a beautiful person.
Seriously.
For real though!
