African American Hair
I, like many black women have done it all to my hair. I've had perms, weaves, and braids, dye jobs, texturizers, home jobs, press and curls, finger waves, and last but not least "au naturale". Part of me is ashamed to admit it, but I used to like the way my hair felt soft and it didn't hurt to comb when it was relaxed. It was shiny and it swung and was still thick. However, it was relaxed and I, to a certain extent, felt like a sellout, a trader to the cause, a liar. (Maybe that last part borders on melodramatic but that's how I felt.) When my aunt used to put my relaxer in, I wanted to yell for her to STOP!! I had made a mistake, she should just wash and curl it and I would work with it from there. As I sat waiting for the relaxer to take all I could think about was how long it would take before I had enough new growth so that I could go natural. I used to worry about what people would think of me if I decided to go natural, but now I attend the Mecca, the epitome of black hair pride, where it seems that if you aren't natural, to a certain extent you are condemned. I've now accepted the fact that black hair is unique and that being highly textured, black hair is naturally more coarse, dense and brittle than other hair type. I hav
While having gone through each of my hair fads, I, like a lot of black women, have tugged and pulled, picked and combed, clipped and shaped, straightened and curled my hair so much that I never really took the time to just let it alone and let it breathe (talk about waiting to exhale!). I would always be full of hope that the latest hair care product or fad would give me the glowing crown of beautiful hair that I always wanted. I never realized that my glowing crown had been there from birth, a chemical free, full, healthy head of hair. Natural hair is not limiting; the three main types of styles stated above offer a multitude of hairstyles in and of themselves. Frankly, after all I put my hair through, I need to get down on my knees and thank God that I'm not bald and that I have any hair to go natural with! I hated Sunday nights when I was growing up. Those were the evenings my mother spent neutralizing my naps. On those nights she declared war. The kitchen was the battlefield, the hot comb was her weapon and the enemy was my kinky head. She took no prisoners. My mother would wash my hair, comb through all the tangles and knots (without conditioner) and then let it air-dry. As soon as I saw her lay the comb on the stove I prepared for the worst. I can still hear the sounds of the hair grease (and my hair) sizzling as mom would run the hot comb through the sections of my hair. My mom tried to be as gentle and careful as possible, but there were still occasions when the comb might slip a little and leave a little burn on the back of my neck
Some common words found in the essay are:
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Approximate Word count = 1048
Approximate Pages = 4 (250 words per page double spaced)
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