Hair Story

by Shoma Webster

 

Chapter I

Her: I think it’s time. I don’t know what else to do with it.

Me: I stared at the girl and her wide smile. Her hair was long and straight. I was excited like a kid on Christmas morning. I was going to get a chance to look like the girl on the box, well maybe not exactly like her.

Her: Stay here while I get the Vaseline.

Me: When she returned she put the Vaseline around the perimeter of my forehead, close to my ears and on the nape of my neck. What came next was unexpected. The creme substance she mixed, smelled like the sewer. She applied it to my hair, and I waited. It began to tingle, itch, then burn. “This is burning,” I said. I tried to contain my urge to wipe the product off my head. The longer it stays the straighter it will get. “Okay, this is burning.”

Her: It’s time to rinse it out.

Me: When my hair was washed and dried. I could run a comb through it without effort. It worked! But, I didn’t look like the girl on the box. I was disappointed. Despite this, I would continue to return for my monthly treatment. I guess it was official. I was indoctrinated as an American girl.

 

Chapter II

Me: My sister moved away by the time I got to high school. There was no one left to do my hair. My relaxer and side ponytail was getting old. Braids once reserved for special occasions became the norm. She had a friend who could braid, and I wanted to look nice for school. When I arrived at her home, Naomi entrusted a friend to do my flat twists. I didn’t connect with her friend. She spoke in some African language almost the entire time. Her fingers grabbed every strand of my hair and twisted. The hairstyle was so tight that it pulled the skin on my face back. I was in pain, but I liked the style. I went home with a throbbing headache and took Tylenol to relieve the pain. I wore that hairstyle for weeks. Then the time came for me to take my hair down. When I got to the top, a small amount of hair between nestled between my fingers. I touched the spot where my hair once grew. Furious she took me back to her friend.

Her: “How could this happen? She did it too tight!” Naomi insisted that it would grow back.

Me: It never grew back. To date, one of the biggest regrets is that I never took my hair down immediately when I got home that night. I never saw her friend again.

 

Chapter III

Fast forward past the trauma of my high school days and enter my 18th year of life. It was my year of exploration. By the first semester of my freshman year of college, I’d worn all sorts of colors in my hair: from purple, to fiery red, to dark red, and pink. But, not orange or green–never those colors. I had been going to a professional African shop to do my braids when I tried a color that changed my life.

My friend: That is your color, burgundy suits you.

Me: From that moment, burgundy was all I knew. I could change my hairstyle a hundred times, but one thing remained the same. It had to be burgundy. My burgundy hair became part of my identity and one of my identifying features. Over the years, I received many questions about my hair, mostly from strangers in different parts of Chicago and various parts of the world I traveled to. People were curious. I didn’t mind. My hair spoke and I didn’t have to.