The only child in the world that actually asks for the hot comb.
The only child in the world that actually asks for the hot comb.
As I’ve talked about again and again, I’ve got this thing with my hair. Well, here we go one more time.
This was me in 1999. . . .pretty cute at 21, right?
Bright eyes, big smile, average hair.
My hair was just that — hair, not something I worried about much until I needed to get it touched up or trimmed. DH and I were dating — I was a junior in college, he was in law school — and he invited me to a formal. Being the broke college student that I was, I was in a pinch on getting my hair done. Somehow I had finagled a dress, but hadn’t budgeted for a trip to the salon. At least, I couldn’t afford to get the full on relaxer that I so desperately needed. And somehow, I had gone 20 years not knowing that I could have picked up a $5 box kit of Dark and Lovely at K-Mart off of Bypass Rd. So, I decided to just cut it.
As in cut it all off.
And from then on, my hair became an entity unto itself. Once it was cut, I just let it do it’s own thing which I quickly found out was to just spiral around and around.
10 plus years is a long time with one hair-do. I mix it up now and then by pulling it back, blowing it out, wearing pig-tails and whatnot, but for the most part, it’s out, large and in charge. I’ve become known for my hair, often joking that I could never rob a bank because. . .well duh, look at the hair! There are drawbacks of course — strangers wanting to touch it- often times uninvited – combing out the tangles, blowing through conditioner like whoa! And even though I torture it by pressing it out, not moisturizing it enough, and who knows what else, (since my hair care skills are pretty non-existent) it’s very resilient.
Aside from the year DH and I got married, it’s been natural a full 10 years. Within the last few years, though I have been toying with the idea of cutting it off and starting over. My chronology may be off, but when Poshdebuted her bob, I was like, “That’s it! I’m doing it! I’m cutting it off!” and DH was there to talk me down from the ledge with what has become his standard response: “Why don’t you get some braids?” Ugh, how I loathe getting my hair braided. I love how it looks, but I can’t sit that long anymore! If I have 8 hours to give up, is the braid shop really where I want to be? C’mon, now!
Usually after this convo, the moment I set foot out the house I, at least half a dozen people would compliment me on my hair. So I would relent and leave my hair alone.
Then Michelle Williams showed up with her pixie, I said, “That’s it! I’m doing it!” and DH pulled me back in. Then Rhianna caused a style frenzy and I said, “I’m all over that!” And even Margene (a.k.aGinnifer Goodwin) got in on the act. It was a vicious cycle until about two days ago. I saw an old picture of Kiera Knightley and dragged DH into that familiar dance of “That’s it! I’m doing it!”
And, then I did.
I’ve always had trouble pronouncing the word hirsute. It sounds like “here-soot”, but I want to say “hair-suit”, which I think makes more sense. Thankfully I never had to use hirsute in a sentence that described myself. For those that haven’t cracked a Merriam Websters in a while, hirsute refers to excessive hairiness or as Wikipedia so eloquently puts it, “excessive and increased hair growth on female humans in locations where the occurrence of terminal hair normally is minimal or absent. ” Think Barnum and Bailey’s Bearded Lady or perhaps the cafeteria lady that dished up your Taylor Ham & Cheese lunch in elementary school. You get the idea.
Now, I have to admit, I have been pretty negligent about my eyebrow maintenance as of late. I’m getting a little Frieda Kahlo to be perfectly honest. Co was out of school the other day for a teacher in-service so it was her dubious pleasure to accompany on this little junket. I knew I didn’t have a whole lot of time as I spent the better part of the morning working off those Reese Cups from Halloween, so I opted to hit up the little nail/waxing hut in the mall.
I’ve got Co strapped in the stroller, plied with Goldfish and apple juice and we make our way past the nail tech benches and rows of pedicure chairs. The young lady directs us into the waxing room — more like closet — and instructs me to lie back on the reclining chair. Co has been wheeled and parked out of the way on the left hand side of the chair, but she is in an excellent spot to see what’s going on and throw out two year old questions and concerns about my welfare.
Now, you all know I’ve got big hair and often times the curls fall forward onto my face. The tech brushes my hair off of my forehead and then turns to get her wax applicator (I’m being generous here– we all know it’s a Popsicle stick). When she turns back, the hair has moved back to my forehead. She turns and puts down the wax applicator, turns back, pushes my hair aside, albeit a little more forcefully, and then turns to get the wax. Guess what happens with my hair. Seriously, when she turned around again, I swear she gave an exasperated sigh before using both hands to push and scrunch my hair away from my face. I think she put her foot against the wall for leverage.
With my hair semi-secured off of my face, she begins to apply the wax and the strips. Co cranes her head around, straining against the stroller straps to see what’s going on. With every step of the wax and rip process, she wants to know:
“What dat?”
“You have a boo boo?”
“Ow, Mommy. Ow, ow, ow, right?”
“Your face is hurting! Your face is hurting!”
I assure her that I’m fine, though ripping hair off of one’s face using hot wax is probably about as far from fine as you can get. Part of me wonders if exposure to this beauty regimen is going to burrow into her brain and then when she’s 11 years old, she’ll have brows and a ‘stache like Madonna’s daughter and demand electrolysis.
Speaking of mustaches, I never likened myself to Tom Selleck before, but the waxing tech must have thought he and I were twins separated at birth. As soon as she finished my brows, she asks, “You want me to get your mustache, too?”
My hand flies to my upper lip, fingers probing around expecting to feel an outcropping of hair. “What?!,” I stammer “Get my what?”
“Your mustache,” she says, waxed covered Popsicle stick poised and ready to go. “I can take care of that.”
I grab the handheld mirror lying on the counter and look at my face. It’s bad enough that the ripping of the wax from my brows has raised puffy red welts around my eyes and along my brow bone. Forget about my hair preceding me when I enter a room; now my inflamed brows had that pleasure . Did I really want to add a pink puffy upper lip? No, not really.
So, I thanked the tech, tucked my chin down to my chest, pulled my curls over my brows and wheeled us out of there. As we boogied on out of the mall, I ended up walking past several of those kiosks that sell skin and hair care products, including as kiosk for threading. The young man was holding some thread between his hands as he leapt out at me. “Excuse me, Miss? Can I just ask you a question? You look really familiar.”
“No,” I said striding past. “I am NOT Tom Selleck!”
I have been having a love/hate relationship with my hair for the past few weeks. I have a reputation for changing my hair color as often as I change my mind. Craig often says he doesn’t know who he’s coming home to. In fact, one of the first things I did after dropping both M and C was reach for the box of Hydrience by Loreal — after the obligatory glass of wine or four of wine and large plate of sushi.
My hair. . .where to begin. I get it from my grandma. Apparently, back in the day, Gram was quite the femme fatale with her curly, reddish golden ‘fro. So along with her penchant for cooking, she passed onto me the Phillips family hair — the whole thing, the color, the curls, all of it.
The funny thing is, Gram always asks me, “When are you gonna fix your hair?,” to which I reply, “It’s not broken! It looks just like yours!”
I used to relax my hair, meaning, I would have some chemical relaxer slathered onto my roots to make it lay as straight flat as an Abercrombie and Fitch model’s stomach. Every 8 weeks, cause my hair is thick, I’d drop my $45+ and get that creamy crack smoothed onto my scalp. Then one day, after checking the ex-chequer, I determined it was time to cut it off. I rocked the TWA (teeny, weenie, Afro) for about 2 years. When the Hubs and I got married, the natural hair care machine was not nearly as robust as it is now. 14 years ago, the phrase Big Chop was not part of the vernacular. Infusium 23’s Leave-In conditioner and Sebastian’s Wet Gel were about the only products that allowed reasonable curl definition. The acceptance of natural hair was not very far reaching. My parents leaned on me considerably to “think of the wedding photos!” They were holding the check book, so I caved. Back to the creamy crack. It took two (2), TWO, applications of the relaxer to get my hair to lay flat. The force was strong with the curls! After the wedding, I did the straight thing for a while until I got tired of burning my hairline with the curling iron. I threw in some braids and went on my merry way. After that, I decided to cut off the braids and start over with the natural. So here we are.
What I love about my natural hair is that when it comes down to it, I don’t have to do anything. No appointments at a salon. No worrying if I’m going to “sweat out my perm” if I go to the gym. No worrying if my hair will keep because the forecast calls for about 78% humidity. Simply wash and go, on most days. The problem is that no matter what product I put in lately, my curls are rebelling. I’ve tried Miss Jessie’s Curly Pudding, Curl Junkie Curl Fuel, Mixed Chix Leave-in Conditioner, Tresemme Flawless Curl, Sebastien’s Wet Gel, Queen Helene Coconut Hair Milk. I’m about to just say “Screw it” and turn myself over to the stylist to be shackled back up to the relaxer — Affirm, Super Strength. Super. Strength. Did I mention super? Thanks, Gram!
What kills me is that every time I get the nerve to do make the appointment, without fail, I am bombarded with compliments about my hair. It’s as if my hair knows that I’m plotting against it, so it starts to behave, thereby eliciting comments from strangers. Each curl becomes highly moisturized, forms a perfect “S” shape, no sign of split ends, and the curl pattern is as precise as a corn field of concentric circles. And all I can think is, “Well crap, how come it didn’t look this good when I had to go to the Urban League Dinner/Smithfield Christmas party/casting/audition/go-see/actual job or some other function where I was trying to look good? So the cycle repeats. And as a little side note, I’ve got to get a grip on my own hair ’cause who knows what kinds of locks are going to sprout up from Mo and Co as they get older!
Today, I think only half of my hair got the message to act out. From the crown of my head to about a quarter of the way down, the Frizz Contingent is striking out threatening to overrun the lower quadrants of Semi-Respectable Looking Curls. There is a small hold-out of curls near the nape of my neck (also known as the kitchen) that have happily sucked down the curl hydrating goop I used this morning and have consented to fall into a nice tangle of bouncy spirals. The rest, oy! Naps, knots, kinks, coils, frizz, and fuzz. Par for the course with natural hair, I know, but instead of fighting it, I’m learning to work with it. The results change from day to day, but that’s all part of the journey.
I am SO loving this hair cut. When I first saw Rihanna with the “Posh Spice” cut or maybe it was Posh with the “Rihanna”, I was drooling. I mean, I change my hair color as often as I change my mind, so it should be no surprise that I am ready to change the cut and texture of the ‘do, too. I have to admit, the curly girl look is my signature. Lord knows I could never rob a bank; I’m known for the hair. Still, this look is glam-tastic and I may have to forgo the curls for a while in order to rock this out.