After thirty years of chemical dependence and more hairstyles that I can count, it is time to stop pretending I'm Sasha Fierce. I'm not her and I don't want to be. I want to be the best me I can be. It's been nine months since my last relaxer. Am I saying I'll never put a weave, wig, or relaxer in my hair ever again? Nope. I'm saying that in this moment, I want to see, touch, feel, and nurture my own hair.
Okay, cool. But now what? I've studied the YouTube videos and have decided on my first style. The two-strand twists look easy enough despite the fact that none of the women in the videos seem to have my exact fine, thin, kinky 4C grade of hair. Nevertheless, I've fed my brain with the fruit of knowledge that can only come from watching a million videos. I can do this...
Okay, so I couldn't do it. My hair came out looking like a stringy matted mess.
The morning I was set to unravel my twists was a workday. I woke up an hour early without an alarm. It was like Christmas Eve. Would Santa bring me exactly what I was hoping for? Perfectly coiled twists? Um, no. Not on this go round. But I am not discouraged in the least.
I went to work with my natural hair (actually only about an inch or two is natural, the rest is transitioning) pinned up in the front and a small ponytail in the back. To my surprise, no one did a double take. No one stared at my hair as though wondering what had happened to it. Not a stranger, not a co-worker, not anyone. It was as though no one noticed my hair because I looked to them like the person I'd been trying to look like for the past three decades: me.