I know we’ve all heard it at some time, “I wish I had your hair, no really, my hair falls limp, what I wouldn’t give for some curls and body.” I would always snicker, and roll my eyes, “Do I look stupid? You’d trade your straight, no nonsense SMOOTH hair for my curly, unsophisticated, difficult and always defiant mess?” I’ve carried this chip on my shoulder since I was a child and ALL of my female (and male) cousins had either soft waves or sheets of glass for hair. My mom is french and native American with fine and soft curls. My dad is Persian and has thick and smooth waves. I am a Cajun-Persian and I have (had) pinky wrapped ringlets, spirited from the scalp and so thick I haven’t met a rubber band that deserves an encore.

4A-3C and when I spend enough time on my mane it is shiny and straight. When I used to make it curly, it took some time, the roots were tight, but it would literally spring to life. Shiny, curly and quite heavy were my previous curls and I just wasn’t happy. The more I think about it now, I really should have been overjoyed! I was given a second chance at embracing my curls, my texture and the time it took to get hair that got public compliments.
I have a past of relaxers, thinning cuts, disasters, oil slicks, re-growth, spirals, lotions, gels, Unicure conditioner, and more. I had everything under control, including a great (or so I thought) genius of a hair chemist that helped me tame my mane and feel good about it. I found myself pregnant, and my mind raced…”What the hell am I going to do with my hair?” I pictured myself rockin’ a Persian fro and I shuddered to think of the time it would take to tame it.

Five months into baby carrying and I was pleasantly surprised. Yes, it was a bit kinky, and curly as ever, but it was a beautiful dark brown, shiny and healthy. It took me some time to get it to calm, when I blew it out and ironed it straight it looked pretty fab. Let me reiterate, it wasn’t easy, but it was lovely. Still, engrained in my soul was the ticking clock of post nine months I would visit my hair-tamer for a mild relaxer, just enough to help it lay a bit flatter. Right? It sounds mellow, doable, and boy would it cut down on styling time, right? After all, I had a baby to look after, I can’t spend all my time on my hair, after all, I’m not a vain woman.

My beautiful baby girl arrives, surprises my blonde fine haired husband and I with a head of thick brown hair and eyelashes for days! I let things settle, let my small amount of cash build up and I made an appointment. I look back now and wish I had a hair mentor that would tell me, “Girl, enjoy your hair, wait a while, it’s beautiful, thick, long… leave well enough alone!” In reality, my hair mentor existed as a child that spent her days as the tallest girl, hanging out in the back row of class, eyes fixated on the sea of straight manes, fresh from the shower, no work, no fuss, and that child said to me, “Hey, it’s just a relaxer, then your hair will be smooth, do it, do it, do it!”

So, I’m sitting in the hairdresser who shall remain nameless’ chair. My heart is racing, my stomach is in knots, I panic and I check out. She tells me, I’m out of Mizani Butter, but I have this other stuff, it’s pretty good. She holds out the box of Manetame. Son of a gun, I should have known. It comes in a box for crying out loud. I should say no, I should tell her I’ll come back another time, when she has the tried and tested product we used for years without a problem.

What do I do? “Yeah okay, let’s use that, sounds good!” Was my body inhabited by an evil hair spirit? Was I not in control of my own decision making? Who the heck was I? Why did I say yes? At the time, I was desperate to make a change, any change. I wanted to feel in control of my body again and to do that I allowed this fruitcake of a woman who truly didn’t care about my hair or her failures as my “expert” to go ahead and put a boxed treatment on my virgin hair.

I knew it was a mistake, every step of the way, as she raked it to the ends, as the sulfuric scent made me dizzy, as my heart was in my stomach, I let it continue. While she washed my hair, it felt like nylon. Stripped, fine, plastic sounding. I could hear it snap as she brushed out the tangles and balls of hair fell to the floor. She murdered my mane. She didn’t tame, she poached! She killed my hair.

I went home, in tears, and so very ashamed that I didn’t speak up. I spent the next 12 months pulling out clumps of hair, cutting layer after layer hoping to find some health in my self-inflicted mess.

Here I am, 13 months later and my hair still is in ruins.

I have made my decision. From this day forward, my hair will be mine. My hair moves will be motivated by careful thought and research. I will not allow anyone to tell me or influence me to think that my spirited, curly hair is anything but beautiful.

My road to recovery…

The damaged hair won’t do anything in it’s natural state. It air-dries frizzy and without curl, the roots are kinky and I have so many different lengths that finding a nice style is like solving an unsolvable equation in trigonometry. My only saving grace, which I reserve for special occasions is my innate ability to blow then iron my hair straight. However, due to the increased dryness it is looking less full and quite dull.

I am going to grow and grow until my hair is “clean” and I feel natural. After all, my daughter is growing curls, beautiful curls and I want to be honest when I tell her that we aren’t going to put a chemical anything on them, and I want my hair to be her shining example.

I am taking GNC’s Wellbeing be-Beautiful hair-skin-nails vitamins along with my pre-natal vitamins, Omega oils and calcium. I drink at least 7-8 glasses of water a day. Eat healthy and don’t smoke. That should cover the internal hair health.

I have a really flakey scalp which I treat with Head & Shoulders every 10 days. The rest of the time I condition, oil, and treat my hair with love (and frustration). I trim the ends as my hair grows and I am constantly tempted to chop it all off! We all know that wouldn’t be smart, I’d look nuts. I have big eyes, and I’m very tall and I think it would not suit me. I need a support group to stay strong, to keep it long, to keep my eye on the prize.