Mane

I woke up one morning with an all-consuming thought pounding against my brain, in the same aggressive manner that a headache does.

It was a question. Loud, heavy and persistent:

Should I change my hairstyle?

To some it would seem extremely shallow, and perhaps it was. But I have always been a wild chameleon. To be shackled to one aesthetic for too long would always make me feel trapped, and in recent times, I had begun to ask myself why I would favour certain looks over others.

There was always the “forehead” issue. I’d been told since I was a little girl that my forehead was too big. Too wide, too prominent, too acne prone. I would try all sorts of things to cover it. Often, I would buy a wig and try to cut bangs into it so that it was concealed altogether. My sister would often stand by the bathroom door and watch me butcher another $200 purchase with her arms folded, a sigh of pity escaping her pursed lips.

I’d frown at her and tell her to go away. Then I’d stare into the mirror and tell myself that this was the only way for me to look pretty. I’d scroll through Pinterest and save a collection of images of fair skinned women with perfectly cut bangs and loose wavy hair. Often, I’d land on the infamously beautiful Bridget Bardot. I’d stare at her picture and wonder what I could do to get hair like that.

Then, I’d buy a really expensive wig, watch all the tutorials and lay it down, cut some bangs and feel pretty for a few days or so.

Then I’d eventually get sick of not being able to scratch my scalp, or tie my hair up without intense strategic planning.

I’d freak out when my boyfriend tried to be playful.

I’d rip it off my head as soon as I got into my car after a long day.

I’d massage my throbbing head after securing it too tightly and spending a day out, knowing that a headache was coming.

I’d envy the girls who just seemed to be able to slay and lay their wigs, go swimming in their wigs, workout in their wigs, even sleep in them sometimes.

I just couldn’t quite enjoy it.

So then I’d give my wig away to a friend, or throw it away altogether. And then, I’d access the holy trinity:

1. Pinterest

2. YouTube

3. Google maps

I’d use Pinterest to look up gorgeous black women with Afro-centric hairstyles. There would be braids, twists, locs, crotchet braids, afro-kinky coils and slick braided tresses as far as my finger could scroll. I’d fall in love with it all and immediately initiate part two.

I’d decide which style I wanted and find a YouTube tutorial to match it. I’d sit there and watch a hair guru guide me through a transformative process that would make my heart soar.

And then, I’d hit google maps so I could find a nearby African hair shop. I’d check my bank account, see the limited funds and decide to go without eating out for a bit so I could splurge on my hair.

Once I arrived at the shop, I’d peruse the overwhelming variety of options, and usually, I’d pick a very curly set of crotchet braids, and I’d buy about six packs, hoping that they were no more than $15 a pack.

I’d buy the hair, and head straight home to get started. I’d sit there for hours, cornrowing my hair while binge watching something to distract me from the way my arms were burning from staying up so long. Then finally, I’d grab my crotchet needle and loop the hair through my cornrows until I was unrecognisable.

I’d fluff the obnoxiously large tresses up and put a little curl mousse in, and then do the very important earring test. I’d grab a pair of large earrings, usually a pair of hoops, and put them on to see if they looked cute with my hair. Hoops always did. And then I’d find an excuse to post a picture up, or go out to gage a few reactions.

Usually, the first week would be awesome. People would smile, compliment my hair and tell me I look gorgeous. I’d lap it up and feel amazing. But then I’d spend a little too much time in the mirror one day, and all of a sudden, I’d feel disgusting. I’d tell myself that I didn’t look lavish, or sleek, or put together. I’d decide that I needed to upgrade because I looked like a damn mess. I’d decide that Afro hair wasn’t sexy. That I wasn’t sexy.

And then, in a fit of self-hating anti-black rage, I’d cut all my hard work off, take it out, and wash my hair, and decide to order a new wig tomorrow.

I’d been through that cycle so many times that when I woke up on that particular day, my head throbbed with:

Should I change my hairstyle?

Should I change my hairstyle?

Should I change my hairstyle?

Should I change my hairstyle?

I just covered my face with my hands and growled exasperatedly. Then I decided to walk up to my bathroom mirror. I stood there, observing the way my brown eyes contrasted against my jet black afro-twist crotchet braids. Then the war began.

On my left shoulder, an angel with a lace front wig on. On my right shoulder, an angel with kinky, coily, Afro hair. They started bickering with each other, and I just stood there and listened. The conversation is recorded below.

Lacey (the archangel of lace front wigs): Look at her. She looks messy and unkempt. She obviously needs me in her life and it’s about time she upgraded.

Coiletta (the archangel of Afrocentric hair): Lacey why do you always act like you’re the better option? Haven’t you seen how happy she is when I’m the one on her head? She’s free, she’s limitless. She’s proud of her blackness!

Lacey: Yeah, maybe, but she doesn’t feel sexy or attractive. How can she, with you on her head? How can she be attractive when she looks like she’s a black panther all day, every day?

Coiletta: Oh, because black panthers can’t be sexy? What isn’t sexy about being pro-black?

Lacey: Are you saying I’m not pro-black? What about all the black geniuses who have perfected me and made their millions? What about the businesses that have skyrocketed because their clientele loves me? What about all the models, actresses, singers and businesswomen who have managed to get what they got because of me?

Coiletta: And what about all the little black girls who spend their entire childhood aspiring to have you on their head? What about their damaged self-esteem, self-hate? What about their inability to love their natural hair because they’re so obsessed with you?

Lacey: That’s not my fault. Talk to their mums and aunties about that one.

Coiletta: Look, Lacey. I think you’re beautiful, I do, and let’s not act like you haven’t tried to imitate me at times, but anyway, I have no issue with you. I just hate that your girls are always looking down on me. It’s so stupid, like…why are we even fighting? Are we not both bomb, sexy, and beautiful? And doesn’t the fact that we have both been perfected by black women make us both awesome?

Lacey: Well…when you put it that way…yeah. Can you just stop your girls from throwing shade at my girls and calling us all fake and anti-black? We’re down with black women loving themselves just as much as you are. Our method might be a little different…but our hearts are the same.

Coiletta: Sure, I’ll talk to my girls. And tell yours to stop calling mine unruly and unattractive, yeah?

Lacey: Sure.

Me: Guys! Wait! You’re supposed to give me an answer! Which of you should I pick?

Coiletta: Honey, you’re a black woman. You’re beautiful, powerful and unique. Your freedom to choose what your hair looks like and change it whenever you feel like, is a superpower. Stop trying to control it. Just set it free. And make sure your choices are guided by self-love and black girl magic, nothing else is allowed, okay?

Lacey: And for goodness sake, please get a professional to help you if you’re struggling with me. Half of the reason you hate me is because you always try to do it on your own, okay?

Me: Okay, sure. I will.

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After that conversation in my head had ended, all that was left was me, myself, and my mane. I decided that actually, I loved my kinky, coily crotchet braids, and I’d rock them for a little while longer, but one thing was certain: I needed to shampoo and condition or I’d probably scratch my scalp into oblivion.