New Growth

                I recently cut my hair. Like it’s all gone cut my hair. Like let me get a hard brush and a wave cap cut my hair. And never have I felt freer. I knew I’d get all the responses I received. Some of my favorite naturals loved it. Some relaxed and non-Black friends love that I was bold enough to do it. My close friends wondered why the hell I did it. My family has yet to fully accept it (my 13 year old brother and other family members have referred to me as his brother). My boyfriend (who shall be hereafter throughout the life of this blog referred to as “Shorty”) still wonders when I’ll let it grow. I’m still basking in the fact that I was brave enough to do it. *heavy sigh of contentment*

                I think that more than anything, I appreciate my friends and their asking why I did it. I haven’t straightened my hair with more than heat for more than three years; I’ve been rid of my relaxed hair for more than two years. So why oh why did I cut all my hair off?

                For starters, I never really got good at maintaining my natural hair. I may have been the most lazy naturalista in recent history. I’d get up, wash my hair, comb through it, throw leave conditioner on it and go about my day. I never tied my hair at night. I still don’t have a satin pillowcase. But I was in love with my hair in its natural state and I wore it proudly. My first time trying a “natural” product was Cantu leave-in shea butter mess. My fro was a crunchy disaster. Then I tried the Kinky Curly system. My fro was a sticky disaster. I decided conditioner and heavy oils were enough. A year later, I learned that they were not.

                I was also straightening my hair with high heat from “healthy hair” flat irons—whatever those are. Christmas of 2011, I received a Silver Bird blow dryer and my whole life changed. Sometimes I did a cool blowout to make my fro stand out more. Sometimes I wore an actual blowout where my hair laid straight and I never had to go through the pains of flat ironing. I never enjoyed doing natural styles because they were so much work, so decorative scarves and ostentatious bows were my best friends. A year later, I bought my titanium-plated Croc flat iron. THIS was the beginning of the end. I finally learned the perfect mixture of Chi Silk Infusion Oil, Carol’s Daughter Hair Balm, Mizani heat protectant and Fantasia Anti-Frizz Serum that kept my mane just as straight or full of body as I pleased, and how effective that mixture was with my Silver Bird and my Croc on 450 degrees Fahrenheit. I was damn fool for flat ironing.

                Then came the heat damage. At first it was in small places, and the next thing I knew, the entire front of what was once a beautiful afro was a limp, lifeless mockery of my natural texture. From my edges to about two inches into my hair was an utter travesty. In the top of my crown, my natural curls were shamefully neglected. They were dry and broke at an alarming rate. No protein treatment or deep conditioning or concoction of shea butter, Argan and coconut oils made a difference. I found myself in the predicament of finding a skilled beautician or becoming a YouTube junkie to learn styles for my hair. As an unemployed recent grad, I honestly only had one option—until I saw Jill Scott in concert at the Hampton Jazz Festival.

                Jill, who has recently plunged into the world of elaborate performance hairstyles and outfits, surprised me on stage with what most naturals refer to as the TWA (teeny weeny afro). I had been secretly coveting the bald heads of many of my peers and toyed with the idea of shaving my own head to a Caesar or a fade for the past eight months. The fad, sadly influenced by the infamous ex-girlfriend of Kanye West, was beautiful to me. It exuded a confidence I envied. It all but said “fuck your standard of beauty,” right out loud in everybody’s face. I wanted that. But I wanted a lot of stuff, so I brushed it off.

                A few weeks later, I found myself in a really uncomfortable mental space. I was frustrated with so many things outside of my control, I couldn’t figure out which way was up. I hadn’t found anywhere to live in the fall and wasn’t even totally sure that I’d be accepted for the fall semester for my grad program of choice because of a recommendation the school had yet to receive. My parents weren’t entirely supportive of some of the decisions Shorty and I had made, and I was still waiting on my paycheck from my summer job. Something had to give.

 I woke up on a Monday morning and told Shorty I wanted to cut my hair. He wasn’t totally against it, so I kept steadfast on my path to bald-headed glory. I warned my mother, asked the advice of some former and current baldies, and found a barber. The following Friday, I washed my hair, got dressed and headed to the barbershop. I think I was shaking, but it’s honestly one huge blur. A toddler was screaming while receiving his first haircut and I reassured myself that he would be the only person in that shop to shed a tear that day. I tweeted and said slowly to myself something dream hampton said over and over again: Deliberate and afraid of nothing. Dave called me to his chair, asked what I wanted, looked at the picture I’d taken of my friend Summer, turned on his clippers and cut my hair to a low Caesar.

Some say cutting your hair is a crime against God. Some religions state that cutting hair is a way to remove one’s vanity or sacrifice it to the Creator. Still, others do not cut their hair as a sign of devotion to their God and their faith. I’m not entirely sure what of this I believe, but I know that I’ve not once in my life felt so empowered by a decision as I did this one. From March of 2010 to June of this year, I’ve experienced and learned things I never imagined I’d need to understand or know. I’ve loved and I’ve lost and now I love again. I’ve lost friends and found sisters. I’ve become a woman I like and admire, that I can sit down with and be quiet with and be content. I found what I believe is my life’s purpose. I’ve grown in my faith and spirituality. I’m still owning all the raggedy shit I do and trying my best to be better.

Was cutting my hair a symbol of that growth? Maybe. More than most things, though, I believe that we must move ourselves into uncomfortable spaces to experience true growth. By the Creator’s grace and through His blessings, I’m doing just that.