When I was young, I couldn't have told you why my mom insisted on giving me perms on the reg. I could have told you the only thing more horrific than the process was the result. But that's only because I was super self aware and articulate. And also because I was not wrong.
And when she wasn't going all in on curls and frizz, she was seeing just how much of my hair could be bangs. So much.
It's fine. After years of therapy, I've finally gotten myself past all the pain of a bad-haired childhood. And I've done so much better for myself. Oh wait...
I did that one entirely on my own. And when people told me my hair was growing back nicely, assuming I'd lost it with chemo, I just...you know...said, Thanks! Which, I assure you, is better than what I did with my previous bad haircut, the infamous "Lafayette." When I got the Lafayette, I just wept all day every day for months.
I think I've made my point. I was set up from a young age to make bad decisions with my hair. Some of it is my hair's fault. It's not great hair. But neither my mom nor I ever learned to make better decisions or to deal with the bad decisions well. Hats. Tears. Terrible lies of omission. These are my baggages of my hairstory.
And as any good mother would, I've done my best to shield my daughter from a similar fate. Which is a feat, right? She has an afro, and I can't even handle my white-girl hairs. There are moments I feel entirely unworthy to be up in her crown; but mostly I think we do alright. A key component of my strategy is to just leave it be. And by leave it be, I mean never get it cut. Ever. She's had two cuts in her life, and I think both of them have gotten their own blog post. We live and die by the "if it's not broke, don't fix it" motto. And I can vouch for it. It ain't busted, it's beautiful.
But I am who I am, right? Biologically driven to book haircuts that should never be had. And just as my mother before me, I grew tired of self-harming and decided to bring the pain to my sweet, sweet child.
I did my homework. I didn't just swing in to the local Great Clips, like someone (cough: my mom) would have done. I made calls and crowd sourced until I found someone with actual ethnic hair experience. And not just ethnic hair, Ethiopian hair!
And I hyped it up with my kid. We're going to a salon, baby! Where ladies go! It'll be so much fun. And it'll be so much easier to comb your hair when we get all those dead ends off. You'll see. It won't even look different!
She was fully dubious. It was nothing but a fight to get the two haircuts she has had (with many additional fights that ended in me just giving up). But there is a point at which I'm the mom and if I say we're getting a haircut, we're getting a haircut. And that right there is where I should have known I was headed down a dark road.
The "because I'm your mom and I said so" argument is always a pathetic place to find yourself. And even though she's not sassy enough to say it or even think it, Ayana could have easily won that argument with a simple: "are you sure you're really qualified to make hair decisions for other people?" counterpoint. I'm not even qualified to make them for myself, child.
But she didn't argue too hard and I wasn't trying to budge, so we trucked ourselves to the salon last night and got about the business of family legacy. And as the hanks of curl began to fall around her, I saw the very familiar panic and defeat of a girl who knows that she can't get that hair back. That what's done is done.
I'll tell you right now, her hair looks amazing. The cut was lovely, and she looked like a damn model sitting straight-backed as the hairdresser fluffed it and twirled it and coiffed it into an afro of the goddesses.
But I knew. I knew that as soon as we got in the car, she was going to burst into the same tears I've cried so many times. I was planning my next move before I even tipped the stylist. There would be bows. There would be ice cream. There would even be temporary pink hair dye that didn't actually work but we tried and that made her cry a little less.
And this, I suspect, is the reason for all those perms so many years ago. This is how one mom prepares her daughter for the first time her daughter looks and the mirror and thinks, this is not what I wanted to look like. I have never been able to imagine Ayana feeling that way. She is stunning. Every inch of her is perfectly perfect. And I honestly think she usually knows that. She carries herself like a girl who loves herself unconditionally.
But not last night. Last night, she needed a mama who didn't just feel bad for her. She needed a mama who knew exactly how she was feeling. I won't always be able to do that for her. Sometimes I'll have to wipe away tears I haven't cried. But not last night. Last night, our hearts were braided together in a way they haven't been before.
And as she curled into me on the couch and we watched our goodnight episode of Fresh Prince, I sent a silent thank you to my mom, my grandma, and the universe for teaching me that the only difference between a good haircut and a bad one is a week.
Exhibit A
I think I've made my point. I was set up from a young age to make bad decisions with my hair. Some of it is my hair's fault. It's not great hair. But neither my mom nor I ever learned to make better decisions or to deal with the bad decisions well. Hats. Tears. Terrible lies of omission. These are my baggages of my hairstory.
And as any good mother would, I've done my best to shield my daughter from a similar fate. Which is a feat, right? She has an afro, and I can't even handle my white-girl hairs. There are moments I feel entirely unworthy to be up in her crown; but mostly I think we do alright. A key component of my strategy is to just leave it be. And by leave it be, I mean never get it cut. Ever. She's had two cuts in her life, and I think both of them have gotten their own blog post. We live and die by the "if it's not broke, don't fix it" motto. And I can vouch for it. It ain't busted, it's beautiful.
But I am who I am, right? Biologically driven to book haircuts that should never be had. And just as my mother before me, I grew tired of self-harming and decided to bring the pain to my sweet, sweet child.
I did my homework. I didn't just swing in to the local Great Clips, like someone (cough: my mom) would have done. I made calls and crowd sourced until I found someone with actual ethnic hair experience. And not just ethnic hair, Ethiopian hair!
And I hyped it up with my kid. We're going to a salon, baby! Where ladies go! It'll be so much fun. And it'll be so much easier to comb your hair when we get all those dead ends off. You'll see. It won't even look different!
She was fully dubious. It was nothing but a fight to get the two haircuts she has had (with many additional fights that ended in me just giving up). But there is a point at which I'm the mom and if I say we're getting a haircut, we're getting a haircut. And that right there is where I should have known I was headed down a dark road.
The "because I'm your mom and I said so" argument is always a pathetic place to find yourself. And even though she's not sassy enough to say it or even think it, Ayana could have easily won that argument with a simple: "are you sure you're really qualified to make hair decisions for other people?" counterpoint. I'm not even qualified to make them for myself, child.
But she didn't argue too hard and I wasn't trying to budge, so we trucked ourselves to the salon last night and got about the business of family legacy. And as the hanks of curl began to fall around her, I saw the very familiar panic and defeat of a girl who knows that she can't get that hair back. That what's done is done.
I'll tell you right now, her hair looks amazing. The cut was lovely, and she looked like a damn model sitting straight-backed as the hairdresser fluffed it and twirled it and coiffed it into an afro of the goddesses.
But I knew. I knew that as soon as we got in the car, she was going to burst into the same tears I've cried so many times. I was planning my next move before I even tipped the stylist. There would be bows. There would be ice cream. There would even be temporary pink hair dye that didn't actually work but we tried and that made her cry a little less.
And this, I suspect, is the reason for all those perms so many years ago. This is how one mom prepares her daughter for the first time her daughter looks and the mirror and thinks, this is not what I wanted to look like. I have never been able to imagine Ayana feeling that way. She is stunning. Every inch of her is perfectly perfect. And I honestly think she usually knows that. She carries herself like a girl who loves herself unconditionally.
But not last night. Last night, she needed a mama who didn't just feel bad for her. She needed a mama who knew exactly how she was feeling. I won't always be able to do that for her. Sometimes I'll have to wipe away tears I haven't cried. But not last night. Last night, our hearts were braided together in a way they haven't been before.
And as she curled into me on the couch and we watched our goodnight episode of Fresh Prince, I sent a silent thank you to my mom, my grandma, and the universe for teaching me that the only difference between a good haircut and a bad one is a week.
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