My Crown Of Glory

I read an article yesterday that almost turned me pink with fury.

The main gist of this article was that black women with natural hair are insecure and would feel much prettier if their hair was straight, relaxed, or in a weave.

Before I kick off on a rant, I think I should point out that the article mentioned a study conducted by a cosmetics company which had spoken to at least 3,000 black women, 2,500 of whom allegedly attested to feeling much more attractive when their natural hair was either chemically straightened or covered by a weave.

As a woman with natural hair, either worn in an Afro or in a protective braided style, it goes without saying that I was not only offended by this article, but struck by the lie it is trying to sell.

I decided to go natural BECAUSE I feel more confident this way. And I have never felt better.

I used to relax my hair.  I first had my hair relaxed when I was 13 years old. Enduring two hours of physical and financial agony every two months was a way of life until I turned 30.  I just had enough.  I have a very sensitive scalp but my hair is as stubborn as I am, so a trip to the salon for a retouch was another way of saying I willingly took myself to the torture chamber on a regular basis.

I would endure the burning and the stench, not to mention the subsequent burns to my tender scalp, all in the name of having ‘good hair’.

I am lucky enough to be a hands-on person.  I learned how to condition and style my own hair at home, so all I needed the salon for was the generous application of chemicals to my hair every two months.

  One day, I had just washed my hair, and was examining the growth in the mirror, trying to calculate how much longer I could put off the dreaded visit to the torture chamber without turning up to work looking like I had been dragged through a bush backwards.  I stared long and hard at my reflection in the mirror and decided- enough is enough.  I reached for the scissors on the bathroom shelf, and cut off a swath of hair, right down the middle of my head.  And kept going.  And going.  And going.  And before I knew it, I looked like this.

And. I. Loved. It.

I wasn’t going through some kind of crisis.  As one of the very few Black African students at an all-girls school in England from the age of 11, growing up surrounded by my white friends, I understand the longing for ‘easy’ hair, hair that doesn’t panic at contact with water, hair that doesn’t need oiling and silk caps and extra moisturizing and putting away at night. Hair that was represented in Just 17 and More! Magazine, hair that I saw in music videos. 

I understand India when she sings ‘I am not my hair’.  I know what it’s like to have to wear a certain hairstyle because of where I work and what is deemed acceptable.

But much as taking care of my natural hair may be more time consuming than any other style, I embrace it as me time.  The afternoons I spend conditioning, combing, sectioning, oiling, twisting.  That is time for me to honour and care for myself, to think, sing in the shower, walk around my house in my naked glory and smell delicious.

Time to glory in my naturalness, for lack of a better word.

No wonder a woman’s hair is often referred to as her crown of glory.

I AM my hair.  It doesn’t tell you the music I like, the books I read, how intelligent I am, the job I have, the clothes I wear.

But it does tell you, I am ME.  It tells you to take me as I am, regardless of your concept of beauty, or what is easy, or what is perceived as 'right'.  

It tells you that you are not going to dictate how MY crown should frame MY face.

And I am secure enough to tell you that.

So to all my sisters with ‘fros, curls, twist-outs, dreads, locs… I say, wear your crown with pride.  And don’t let some dumb-ass cosmetics company belittle your choice to be you. In all your natural glory.