Mama means to be gentle but she’s ripping apart my locs just like she pulls up weeds in the backyard: rough and fast. Ever since I can remember it’s been this way. Mama with her YouTube tutorials and tubs full of different creams conditioners oils hair ties pins hooks and headbands all meant for taming natural hair. And me sitting on the floor in front of her trying not to cry.
“Makeda. Sit still. You’re squirming too much. I know I can get this right.”
But I can’t stop squirming today. We are in the sunroom. It’s late morning. I am tender-headed. Always have been. And any little pull or snag sends a sharp pain down my neck and into my back.
But ever since I was called the N-word. I’ve been tearing out the locs at the back of my neck. It hurts but I can’t stop. And until Mama starts making her way across my scalp today. Separating the locs that have grown together and twisting my new growth. I don’t realize how bad it’s gotten. Not until I hear Mama gasp.
“What have you done?!” She asks shoving my head forward and running her fingers along the back of my patchy head. “You’ve made a mess of your beautiful hair.”
“I dunno.” I say biting my lip.
We are silent. Mama covers her hands with grease and rubs it as best she can into my baby hairs and patchiness. Her hands feel like spiders. Crawling all over me.
“Stop!” I say. Scooting away from her hands. “I don’t want to do this anymore. I want it off.”
“We can take a break.”
“No. I just don’t want this anymore.” I say. Lifting my uneven locs up. I feel tears pooling in my eyes. Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry. How do I tell Mama that what I really don’t want is her hands in my hair. It always hurts. She tries but it hurts. The whole reason I have locs in the first place is because she told me it was the easiest way to keep my hair nice. “Low maintenance.” She’d said. So she started my hair in locs when I was seven. And I’ve worn it that way ever since.
But when Eve was younger and before I had locs Mama used to do our hair on the same day. I’d watch Mama brush Eve’s thick straight hair so easily. Then watch her create two perfectly even tight French braids identical to hers before sending Eve off on her way. When it was my turn Mama would pull and fight and try to braid my curly hair the same way but it never came out as smooth as Eve’s. It was always uneven. Bits of hairs escaped and stuck out in odd places. And sometimes. When she was really frustrated. Mama would mutter: “I just don’t understand why it has to be so difficult.” And it always felt like she was talking about me. I am difficult.
“Oh. I see.” Mama is quiet now. “Well.” She says after a long pause. “You’re old enough to decide what you want.”
“I want something new. A change. And I want to go to a black hair salon. Like the one Lena gets to go to every week.” I say before I can stop myself.
To my surprise Mama doesn’t protest even though she looks like she might cry. “Ok.” She says. “But let’s see if we can find a natural hair salon. I won’t have you burning your hair off with chemicals like Lena.”
An hour later we jump in the van. We drive across town and pull up in front of a low building with a hot pink window decal that reads STORMY’S NATURAL HAIR & LOCS. Through the glass windows I see at least three black women sitting in chairs. Talking and reading magazines.
“Maybe they don’t have time for me?” I say. All of a sudden not sure I belong here with my patchy hair and ashy elbows. And my white mama.
“Nonsense.” Mama says getting out of the car. “I called. They said they had room for you today.”
We walk inside and the bells on the door tinkle. All eyes turn to us and conversation stops. A black woman with the most beautiful locs I’ve ever seen walks over. They are thin and dyed a burgundy red with different gold beads in them. They hang regal and neat down past her shoulders. She looks like an actual queen. A goddess. I bite my tongue to keep from gasping.
“Can I help you?” She says. Looking at me with a small smile that disappears when she meets eyes with Mama.
“Yes. Uh. We’re looking for Stormy. I called ahead about my daughter?”
“Your daughter?” Stormy startles looking down at me again. This time with a softer smile. “Oh yes. Your daughter. Well I’m Stormy. Welcome to my shop. What’s your name baby girl?” She says putting her arm around my shoulders and leading me to her chair in front of the mirrors.
“This is Makeda.” Mama answers. Following behind us.
“Hi.” I squeak as I settle into the worn black leather chair that smells like cocoa butter and sweat. “Keda. I’m Keda.”
“Ok well now Keda. What can I do for you?” Stormy is already running her hands through my hair. She pulls my messy locs up into a thick bunch and clucks her tongue when she sees the patchy area at the back of my head. In the mirrors. I see Stormy catch eyes with one of the other women in the salon who raises her eyebrow as if to say: What on earth?! I feel my body heating from within. My ears hot hot hot.
“I want a buzz cut.” I say. When I find my words again. But they are the wrong words.
“A what?” Stormy laughs a little and then stops herself. “Baby girl. You mean you want me to give you the chop? You want me to cut off all this length you been working on?”
“Um. Yeah. The chop. I want the chop. I want short hair. Something I can do myself.”
Stormy shakes her head. And looks at Mama who is standing so close to me I can feel her breath on my right ear. “And this is ok with you?”
“It’s her choice.” Mama says. Looking slightly defeated. “I told her as long as it’s a natural style and as long as she can use natural products it’s fine by me. I won’t have her burning her hair straight like some black women. It’s just so sad. Natural hair is so beautiful. Why try to conform to some white ideal of beauty? And your locs are so lovely. You must understand—”
“Well that’s not really how it works.” Stormy cuts Mama off midsentence. “We don’t ‘burn our hair off.’” Then I watch Stormy take a sharp breath to stop herself from saying more. She points Mama across the room. “Why don’t you have a seat over there in our waiting area. I’ll take it from here.”
Mama’s cheeks flare. But she goes quiet and slides into a chair across the room. When she’s out of earshot Stormy comes around the front of the chair and leans over to look into my eyes.
“Ok then.” Stormy continues. “How short do you want it? You want a tapered cut? A TWA? A fade into mohawk? A fauxhawk? A twistout? Do you want to be able to finger-curl it into a short look? Tell me. I got you.”
As she lists off style after style my tongue goes numb. I had no idea there were so many options.
“I just know I don’t want locs anymore.” I manage.
Stormy smiles and shakes her head. “Ok baby girl. Let’s look at some pictures. Maybe that will help.”
After we scroll through some pictures of black actresses on Stormy’s iPad I decide on a TWA—a “Teeny Weeny Afro.” Kinda like Lupita Nyong’o!
“Good choice.” Stormy assures me. “You won’t even be able to tell about this.” She says motioning to the patches where I pulled my locs out. “I’ll give you a little fade in the back so it looks like it’s supposed to be this way but we’ll blend it up on the side so you can still have some length.”
I close my eyes as my locs fall onto the floor around me like fallen tree branches. I feel the weight come off and sigh with relief. After “the chop” Stormy leads me to the sinks. Then she massages my newly shorn head with peppermint shampoo until it tingles like Christmas. Before I leave Stormy gives me a bag full of natural products to use on my new hair and skin. Some she makes on her own at the shop.
“You come back now.” She calls as we head out. “In about two weeks. And I’ll even you out. Make sure to keep it conditioned too.” And I know she’s talking to me.
On the way home I can’t stop looking at my TWA in the mirror. I’m not bald. But my curls are tight and close to my scalp with a little more length on the top than on the side and in the back. The back is smooth and even when I run my hand over it.
“Very chic.” Mama says. “I think I like it. It will just take some getting used to.”
“Thanks.” I say. Beaming.
“You kinda look like a little boy.” Eve says when she sees my hair later that evening.
“She looks like an African princess!” Mama corrects sharply. “Why don’t we pick you out some pretty earrings at the mall this week?”
But I don’t care if I look like a boy or an African princess. I don’t care about the mall or earrings either. “Just leave me alone.” I say to Eve as I head to my room. And when I get there I look at myself in the closet mirrors and say: This is me.
Later that night I get on the computer and upload a picture of my new hair. Then I type a post:
posted May 12th
Who decides what kind of hair is beautiful?
Do you ever just want to tell your mom: “White lady stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
Do you remember the first black woman to ever wash your hair?
What did it feel like? Did it hurt?
Or did it feel like home?