My Hair Story-The Rise and Fall of my Hair Esteem

Like so many other little girls, my earliest hair memories are of me sitting between my mom's legs while she separated, combed, greased and braided. I am thankful that as my mother spent hours forming and sculpting my hair she never made it seem like a burden or struggle. As a matter of fact, she made a point to tell me how strong my hair is, that it was a testament of the strength of our people. To her, and then to me, our hair came to be more than something to style and primp. Our hair was a gift, an heirloom, passed down from one generation to the next. It held innumerable stories of joy and pain, it was something that was undeniably ours that wouldn't be tamed or hidden. I was secure with myself and my hair. It wasn't until middle school when my hair esteem began to sink.

I now understand why they call relaxers "Creamy Crack". When I think about how I got "hooked" it eerily mirrors true addiction-peer pressure. I was soon the target of a group of kids I'll call "the set"; the one's that are so concerned with letting you know what is wrong who you are before ever taking a look at themselves. "The set" wanted to know why I was so different. They wanted to know why I didn't perm my hair like them, why didn't I like the same type of music they did, why didn't I dress like them. As a result I was called names and accused of not being or wanting to be black. Oh really? Since I wouldn't give up my clothes, my music or my friends I gave up my hair. I took the "it's only hair" line of thinking and from that first relaxer, my hair esteem plummeted.