I became frustrated with my coarse, unwieldy hair. I had an important event coming up (okay, fine, it was Beyoncé's The Formation Tour) and wanted to look my best, but I couldn't get an immediate appointment with my hairstylist. So I called a different stylist who, as it turned out, could get me a relaxer that very same day. A relaxer! Soon, my fingers would be sliding though silky strands once more. All of my convictions about harsh chemicals, burned scalp, and embracing my natural hair went out the same window as my two-strand twist jelly as visions of bouncy tresses swirled through my head.
That was the moment when my hair was no longer an accessory with which to have fun. My hair was no longer an indestructible appendage that I could abuse ad nauseum. Instead, I saw it as a reflection of my attitude toward it. My hair had rebelled against the unrelenting abuses I'd subjected it to, one after the other: the relaxers, the kinky braids, the crochet braids, the sew-in weaves, the wigs, the clip-on extensions.
As I made my online appointment to see a dermatologist, I realized that play time was over. No more chasing the long, silky tresses. No more reckless abandon or feckless behavior toward my hair.
Now, it's time to embrace and nurture the real me or risk losing every strand that remains.
A new crusade begins.