Journey To Loving My Curls

There was a period in my life when, after my mother relaxed my very curly hair, I felt normal. I had dyed my hair a honey color to imitate how the other Caucasian girls looked. And it fit me. For a short while. Until my unruly baby hairs began to grow like weeds on my hair line and I would spend hours every morning attempting to flatten them with an iron. Even when my hair was straight from chemical treatments, it never looked like the other girls’ hair. I would stare in frustration at how humidity made my hair a puffy, dry mess while gorgeous blonde locks remained untouched by the weather.

I tried products to make my hair feel soft and moisturized. Instead I would get oily and  stringy. Then I thought how the key was the flat iron. “I will take it with me everywhere”. But, after a couple of months my hair was brittle, dry, and severely heat damaged.

So I grew it out, and cut it off. I had never felt more liberated in my life. In the shower, my hair was no longer falling out. It came up to about my jawline and, at times, I would cry over having short hair. So it wasn’t always a walk in the park.

Above everything else, I did collect an album of lessons that I learned from this decade long experience. These are my favorite three (they get me through the tough days).

Fragment 55: Fishbowl

It always begins with a simple idea: What if the next words to come out of my mouth were to flow with ease?

What if I weren’t pouring clumsy thoughts everywhere?

What if, for a second, I carried myself like the rest of the girls?

Because the rest of the girls know exactly what comes next. They know when to lean in for a hug, or when a handshake is more appropriate. They don’t over analyze dialogues and stay up until 4 in the morning worrying about the little things. Their hands don’t tremble before posting pictures, and even if they did, what do hands know anyway when mirrors speak all the right words?

They know how many pictures to take and when to laugh. Not too much, but just an adequate amount that the joke is still funny. Unlike me. Who feels like too much joke, and not enough woman.

I admire the girls that mold this world into a welcome mat. I live my life within a fishbowl. Always wondering who’s looking over my shoulder.

Who’s tapping on the glass.

There never seems to be a place to hide.

Fragment 90: Homeless

When the trees begin to look like silhouettes, I know it is time to go home. I’ve grown up flowing to different versions of this habit because, after all, there is only so much we can see during the day. There is a limited amount of risks we can take while the sun is leaning against window sills waiting for its shift to end. Patiently. And then, after it has done its deed, after the world has watered their plants