If you follow me on Twitter, then you know recently I cut my hair. Well, I didn't cut my hair (I'm not experienced in that field). I went to my stylist knowing for certain I wanted to part with three inches of harsh deadness. Don't think my hair goes without TLC. I mean I am partially a beauty blogger. It's just that... well let me tell you the story.
For a good four years of my life, I was a hippie. Clothes were not a friend of mine, the outdoors was my home, and having tamed hair was not a concern. Whenever a hair brush came into my proximity, I would burst into tears as if it was a villain. After several fits, my mother finally gave up and just let me go free. That is until kindergarten.
It was time for me to be in the real world and wear pants. Two things no girl wants to face, at least I didn't. Added to the concoction, I had to get my hair done five days a week. Talk about torture. I would have to sit on the floor in between my sister's legs as she would french braid or put my hair into pigtails. The process of her doing my hair would take close to an hour, and would cause the both of us to be late to school. Looking back, I think my mother assigned this task to my sister as a form of punishment, poor thing. Shortly, I experienced the day every girl awaits. The day when she finally gets her straightened.
My dad had scheduled a photo shoot for my mother, sister, and I to have what I like to call "The Women of the Household" portrait. I was around the age of five and remember being wrapped in a feather boa and my lips shining from my Lip Smacker gloss. Most girls would have just felt the bomb.com from having sticky 99 cent product on their lips, but I felt great because my thick lion's mane was straightened. That's right! My sister was up for hours before the photo shoot with a flat iron in hand trying to turn me into Pocahontas (Disney Pocahontas that is). Sadly, that feeling was buried for the next seven years.
Throughout elementary school, my hair stayed in any type of hairstyle that only involved a hair tie and a way to incorporate a hair bow. I would say around the second grade I got a black woman's holy grail, a relaxer A.K.A. a perm. This I was not happy with, well the process of getting it. I hated having a big glob of white stuff on my head that was equivalent to having chicken fried on your scalp. It was excruciating! But I had to go through with the pain. "Beauty is pain,"my mother would constantly tell me. It was and it still is.
A few years after my first perm, my inner Pocahontas came back. Fifth grade graduation was a special time for me. I was my school's Student of the Year, so that meant Mama didn't want her baby to look a mess. My mother was most excited about picking out my dress, but I was looking forward to my hair appointment. I remember sitting in the salon chair, and waiting for the stylist to swing me around so I could see my straightened strands. Two hours later, I saw the result and loved it. I loved it so much that I was able to talk my mother into buying me my own straightener. Let me tell you, it was a bad idea.
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