Today, I sat in front of my windowsill with tears streaming down my face as I brushed the beautiful curls away.
Holding onto the mass of uncertainty looking for a dingy, yet affordable apartment and another minimum wage job, the tears only came when I felt like myself was falling away. I have spent years learning to love my hair, only for society to deem it “unprofessional”. As I brushed those once twisted, now coiled locks away from my face, I began to hate it once again. I hate hearing the hiss of my straightening iron’s steam, feeling the oil on my hands, and reminiscing on the memories of my mother telling me “it’s the pretty way that it has to be”.
As the fiery fumes brought my soul to a ball of anger and sadness, my thoughts began to derail from the tracks of focusing on forcibly stripping my hair’s natural curve and shape to “fit in” and move steadily to the way I used to be, once so willing to sacrifice my curls for the backhanded compliments of “You look so pretty with your hair like this”.
This simple act I performed all through middle and high school, consistently keeping my hair “pretty” and tidy, now brought me to sob in front of one of my closest confidants. Why do I feel like this? Am I acting like a pageant queen?
Trying to persevere, the health of my mane leaves and seeps away while I clamp it between the two fiery hot rods.
Once again having to stop and breathe, my thoughts began to badger “What’s changed?”. Something once so joyous and confidence-boosting was now absolutely breaking my heart.
Why am I doing all of this? It all began at 8:20am when I got an unexpected phone call from an unknown number. As I woke up with a start and groggily answer, the string of dialogue on the other end consisted of unknown words and I could only pick out “May I speak with Cordia Shaw?” I luckily somehow responded with “this is she, with whom am I speaking?” (sidenote: How was I so professional at 8:20 in the morning? Must’ve been a God thing.) “Hi, I’m ____ from_____ and would love to set up an interview with you.”. The first reaction feeling in my stomach was ecstatic, I have a shot to finally be employed again, finally have a sense of belonging, and FINALLY fuel the workaholic in me. The second was a bit more solemn, I immediately grazed over my twisted natural hair with my nimble fingers while confirming a time for my interview. I knew what had to be done, my protective style would be removed and I would be once again acquainted with the familiar heat of my flatiron. Every footstep felt heavy walking from my bed to my vanity, I immediately felt shame and sadness overtake me. I just spent 4 hours moisturizing and meticulously twisting my hair less than 48 hours before, I was not prepared to take them down so soon.
Every footstep felt heavy walking from my bed to my vanity
Now I know multitudes of people are going to say, “Cordia, that isn’t necessary. Cordia, No one forced you to straighten your hair. Cordia, this seems like a personal problem.” My response to those would be, It is a personal problem. It is an ingrained hatred of anything resembling my “blackness” or half thereof. It is the overwhelming fear of anyone seeing me as “ghetto” or “ratchet”, especially my potential employer. It is society’s stigma on braids and twists and beads unless you are wholly caucasian and coming home from a cruise to the Bahamas. It is the feminist in me, begging for these to change. I know change starts with me. It’s only fair to honor my ancestors, myself, and one day my future daughter. I wish I could tell you that I “stuck it to the man” and left my hair the way it was.
Yet like the “strong” woman I am asked to be, I reigned in my emotions, wiped my teary eyes, and ventured onto finish this harrowing task in silence.
