... & then there was Hair

I’ve always had short hair, short sassy and natural. Natural hair and manageable. Manageable and untangled; untangled and definitely not long.

It’s never been this long before, than I can remember. Unless you count fourth grade, it was longer than – long ponytails with cute little bows and ribbons, and me in my school picture, told not to wear my glasses if not to push them up on my nose. I did neither. And in that school picture with long ponytails with cute red bows and ribbons, I sat there with my hexagon wire-framed glasses perched on my nose as if I was 100 than 10.

That long hair of mine, I do not blame my glasses.

Now of my hair, this mass of braids, not braids but knots, not really knots but slightly matted but not. Dreads. I grew dreads. Dreads of my forefathers, dreads of my culture, dreads of my hair, long gray-tinted dreads that hang down my back. That potentially got caught in my sweaters. That shield of protection even in the worst Texas storms, when having an umbrella really doesn’t matter.

I swear I lose my insanity when I rollover in bed, and lose them to the warmness of my man’s body huddled close to mine.

In my thoughts, I'm constantly twirling those loose strains around in my fingertips as if urging them to grow some more. Not. They're there so I twist.

My hair.

That long hair conceived under a covenant not to cut, beauty shop-a-tize or perm for three long years. Wasn't what I expected.

It grew like the dickens, much longer in ways only the creator could ever imagine. There were so many textures, from gorgeous light and curly at the nape of my neck to partially curly at the arch of my head and then just ruff as wool towards the front. Yes, even in dreads I could tell the difference, some parts twisted well, others refused with tiny puffs throughout, while others were so soft and curly baby hair.

I held onto them as long as I could with dignity for all the soul power of my brutha, my susta nods of what up. But, our journey together was drawing to a close. And indeed, we had to part ways.

I remember …

I was in a park, a small amphitheater, listening to a Jamaican steel-pan ensemble with the sun beaming on my shoulders and neck. It was too hot, I took off my sweater first convinced it was the black colored sweater calling the sun to shine on me. Until, I realize it was my hair, thick dreads resting on my neck, shoulders and back. I for one, couldn’t take it no longer. They had to go!

Even tying them inside of themselves didn’t help. There was no help insight.

But how? And who would release me from this mound of hair? I relished it would happen soon, but soon was delayed as I pondered whether I was ready to part ways, despite how much they caused me pain.

When I stood in front of the mirror, one morning, unsure of the mass upon my head. I wondered, pondering their demise.

It would be one of the hardest things for me to do with each scissor snip, a part of me dropped into the sink. The memories of the earliest twists, the discovery of the temperamental textures, the wonderment and amazement of the length, the thickness, the new me, a soulful sister.

Tears filled my eyes, I don’t know why. After all, it was just hair but a disposition of me, it clearly doesn’t define who I am, and yet I felt as though I’d lost a best friend.

I gathered the lose stands and tucked them inside a box, convinced that one day I would weave them into a basket.

Uh ... no.

Brief, grief got the best of me.

I grew a fro, then cut it to short to sassy. The real me.

When the pandemic hit, I said no to barbers, the fro grew back with a life and trait of its own. So much hair in so many layers with so many more textures than ever imagined.

Was this my head, my hair. I’d never had good hair other than at the nap of my neck and suddenly, it’s all over, locks and loops of hair. A large clump, 4-inches plus. Unmanageable, but mine, fascinating… until I grow tired. I’m at a loss for a style.

So off it comes, again under the barber’s snips and buzz, but not completely off, she refuses to follow my guidance of short, shaved and sassy. Instead, it’s tall in the top with low faded sides, and I’m pleased somewhat, until I realize it’s not me.

So I wait, when the time is right, and the warmer temps arrive, to cut it all off or down or let it grow into a style. The big chop, to start all over again.

Refreshed, and anew.

My hair.