February is Black History Month, and it’s got me thinking about my heritage, or rather my hair-tage. Like many black and biracial women, my hair and I have had a tumultuous relationship. I have my father to thank for my head of curls. People always say I look like my mom, but besides my fair skin and slightly crooked middle fingers, I’m a Moseley in every other aspect, from my flat, size 11 feet to my mop of thick hair.
I’ve come to love my hair, but it wasn’t always such a happy relationship. As a kid I hated my curls. As the token biracial kid in my white corn-fed town, I was keenly aware that no one else–besides my brother–looked like me. When you’re young, all you want to do is blend in. For me that meant long, straight, blonde hair. In other words, the complete opposite of my own.
My poor mother, bless her heart, tried to give me great hair. I remember sitting on the floor in front of her as she worked thick creams through my hair with the vain hope that it would be easier to manage in the morning. (It never was.) Just For Me, Queen Helene, hot oil treatments–I tried every lotion and potion sold in the “ethnic hair care” section at CVS. I’m still haunted by some pale green gloop that had the consistency of Vicks VapoRub. I tease my mom about her lack of beautician skills, but I love her even more for trying so much.
In fourth grade I got a horrid haircut that I kept until I started high school. Looking back, I have absolutely no idea why I kept it for so long when I hated it so much. A hair stylist–who will remain nameless–thought it would be a good idea to give my unruly hair layers. For four years I looked like the offspring of King Louis XIV and Al Yankovic. At school I was the butt of endless jokes. One time a kid put staples in my hair. Kids can be assholes.
Finally in ninth grade I convinced my parents to let me relax my hair. For the uninitiated, a relaxer is like a reverse perm. The hair is chemically straightened (ie. a thick cream is applied to the roots and when it starts to tingle, it’s time to wash it out.) When I got my first relaxer, it was like the heavens had parted. Finally I had my dream hair (minus the blonde part).
Today I still wear my hair straight, but I’ve also embraced my curls. I’ve even grown to love them. Even though I’ve been relaxing my hair since I was 14, there’s still a good amount of curls that pops up instantly when my hair gets wet. (My hair is as stubborn as me.) But now all I need is my blow dryer and trusted flat iron to get my dream hair back. When I’m feeling a little unruly, I wear it curly (with the help of Aveda’s Be Curly). The relaxers have made my curls loose, soft and manageable. It’s the curly hair my mother always tried to give me.
The thing is, even when I hated my hair I was always proud of what it symbolized and where it (and I) came from. Maybe using my hair as a connection to Black History Month seems silly, but for me it’s perfect. After all, this month is about celebrating my roots–all of them.
My current relationship with my hair is quite well thank you.
