My Curls Frame my Face Like Laurels, Embarrassing African Kinky Hairstyles
We all know little of African girl child, especially at their tender ages, but we must trust in what is a certainty that will never abandon us, thou it’s good to be solitary, solitude is difficult, that the fighting spirit that I want to lift I every girls soul, for I love you all, and loving is the most difficult thing on earth.
Who knows of the himba tribe? While they are know of covering themselves with little cloths the tribe has perfected the art to a beautiful thing, breaking the primitively secluded ways of viewing the girl child and appreciating the African girl child in a positive way. It is in this way, that I would love you appreciation of my hair that no one else will have to cross the rivers am done with.
At a tender age my mom did my hair up in little braids with bright beads and barrettes that match my clothes. My teachers complain that they’re distracting, am still wondering who used to be distracted. My mother tries to reason with them that braids are just about the only to manage my hair. They don’t care. The seed is sown, jealously, neocolonialism, or lack of understanding.
As I approached my teens I had to do something, pressing my hair was the only option. My Sundays were spent with aloe vera leaves pressed to the burns on my neck. I start to hate rain and develop a fear of heat tools that lasts to this day.
Teenage and it is pressures is nowhere to spare me, all the girls at school brush each other’s hair. Becky asks if she can brush mine. I want to fit in, yes I have no choice. To my disappointment she runs away yelling to the class that I have grease in my hair. I had to turn to mum, why my hair isn’t like the other girls?. She tells me it’s just how I am, and that my black hair is nothing to be ashamed of. I want to tell her she’s wrong.
The pressures builds, I sit on the floor in my living room crying as the chemicals burn my scalp but I don’t move until twenty minutes have passed. After it’s been flat ironed it’s silky and straight, but it’s not straight or silky enough, not like my peers. I touch the chemical burns on my scalp and wish I had left the perm on longer.
As I settle in and understand there nothing wrong with my hair, am three weeks late on my perm. That awful, bushy new growth is starting to grow under my perfect straight hair. I hate it. I think it’s ugly and dirty and I wish it would just go away. I remind my mom to grab the extra strength relaxer.
Finally life catches up with me. I want nothing more than to tease the edged of my hair as I enjoy the dinner date talk, or put it into backcombed pigtails and clip dream catchers into it. But I can’t. It bushes out at the slightest hint of moisture and tangled in the bat of an eye. I hate my hair in both its natural and treated forms.
I settle in work and life takes the best of me. It’s damaged beyond repair and I’m forced to cut all thirteen inches off. I’m left with the natural hair I’ve hated my whole life. I cry for weeks. But hope should be been my second name, my first healthy curl has appeared. I think it looks pretty. For Christmas I wish for more.
A few years down the line I have afro as big and round as the sun. My curls frame my face like laurels. I put on my hoop earrings and love how I look. I have reinvented myself, my self esteem and courage comes back, my curls are more defined than ever. My natural hair is my glory. I style them into a flat top or a coif or whatever I feel like.
As I appreciate you all today to the courage and efforts that everyone puts through in life always remember, your life’s journey will not always be pretty. It will not always be healthy. You will not remember all of it fondly. But no matter how rough or how long, it will always be worth it