Fawohodie

June 29^th of this year marked the one year anniversary of when I joined Team BawlHead Scallywag. I ain't have no hair in the back. Or the front. Or on the sides. I went to the barbershop with a head full of heat-damaged, brittle, unhealthy hair, and I left with a caesar. Feel free to read more about that experience here.

I'm still not totally sure why cutting my hair off felt like the most effective way of getting where I was trying to go. Toni Morrison told us that in order to fly, we have to “get rid of all the shit that weighs us down.” And I did that. I cut off a lifetime of negative energy and self-destructive behavior. 

I let go of a lot the day I cut my hair: my own standards of beauty, my self image (that wasn't as positive as I thought), even my routine for getting ready in the morning. I felt freer when I left that barbershop than I'd felt in months.

October came and I was still a bawlhead scallywag. I was frustrated. A few days after I cut my hair, I talked to a friend that had done the same thing a few months before me and she told me to prepare to humble myself. I realized around this time of utter distress that I was entering that stage. In the beginning, my new cut was fierce. I was reminded of my bold decision every single time I looked in a mirror and I was proud of my courage. I was proud of my courage until I decided I was ready to have longer hair again. Then I questioned my decision. I beat myself up for being so spontaneous and not considering the long-term sacrifices I'd made. I was upset for being in this position. I was bored with my look. I was mad and I couldn't be mad at anyone but myself. That's some shit, man. Being angry at yourself for doing something ultimately good for yourself is some shit.

So what do you do when you're mad at you? Who do you talk to about it? How do you resolve it? You busy yourself with other things. So I busied myself with my relationships. I planned elaborate birthday activities for my boyfriend, homecoming festivities with my friends, and other things to do with and for other people. I tried new recipes. I pinned more DIY shit on Pinterest than I'll probably ever attempt to create. I planned what I wanted to have or do in my next apartment. I watched Nap85, Hey Fran Hey, and all those other natural hair bloggers daily. I read more about hair than I have ever even attempted to read on Black Girl Long Hair. I set my sights on what was to come.

I didn't do much to improve what was going on with me, though. I didn't figure out how to organize, or plan ahead and finally beat my addiction to procrastination. I didn't implement a new workout routine. I didn't do anything that benefitted Raven in the long run. I wrapped myself up in everything that had nothing to do with making the most of what I had in order to get where I wanted to be. That, my friends, is where I fucked up.

For our one year anniversary, my boyfriend made a song for me. He warned me before I listened to it that he wrote it the way he writes all of his songs: honestly. He very plainly said in this beautiful, wonderful, amazing song that I hope one day everybody and their momma will get to hear, that I lost confidence in myself once I got rid of my hair. I wanted to be offended. I wanted to be upset. But how can you be upset with someone that 1) writes a song about how great you are AND includes in it how much you love Beyonce, writing in your journal and the Honest Toddler, and 2) is totally correct?

Redefining what it means to be pretty is one thing when you're sitting a class of students that are critiquing society. It's totally different and much more invasive when you're finding a reason to feel good about yourself each morning you get ready for work. A face full of MAC, or a fresh pedicure, or a new outfit might help a little bit for a little while. But looking for something to admire in the mirror after I'd rolled out of bed and stepped into the bathroom got more and more difficult. I didn't know what was wrong with me, but I knew I didn't feel like myself.

My hair finally got long enough for braids and I was more excited than a little bit. Got it done and felt like a new person. But when I took them out, I realized that same discontented feeling about myself. Something was missing. It wasn't until last month that I realized what it was.

I went through something I thought I'd never experience. I had absolutely no control over my circumstances. I saw myself, broken into thousands of tiny pieces, lying in the middle of my bathroom floor. But I fucking made it. I woke up every morning and I lived my life, rearranging myself. Making myself better. It wasn't until last month that I learned what I guess I was trying to teach myself last year.

I am enough.