Curls “ I love your hair” A sentence i heard as a

Curls

 “ I love your hair”

A  sentence i heard as a child almost as religiously as my father telling me to pray. Small midnight curly Qs unlike anyone else's, framed my face. My hair is a dandelion , beautiful to look at yet difficult to work through and too much to handle at times. My mom had to go to war with my hair before it would cooperate, still she would say

“ I love your hair”

As my age started to climb its way up the mountain of adolescence, I abolished the spirals for a trendier, straight hair style. I would kill each strand by crushing them between two hot plates. Everywhere my eyes landed I was reminded no one had curls like mine. Reminded my hair, like my melanin, sets me apart from everyone else. My curls forced to be covered by my insecurity of being too different.

“ I love your hair”

They would say to me as fingers ran through the layers of silk that flowed down to the middle of my back , an amazon river of hair. I would smile and say thank you , while on the inside shaking with happiness, brought on by social acceptance. Knowing someone could run five digits through my hair with absolute ease satisfied me to no end.

“ I love your hair”

My mom would tell me as I refused to step foot outside of the house without straight hair. Only allowing my hair to breathe for the miniscule ten minutes after I left the shower, before torturing it with unruly heat. The ringlets screaming in agony, in sync with my scalp who had had enough of the constant tugging. My wrists became weak as the hours went by, still I pushed through. Never stopping until every piece of hair was the straightest it could be.

“I love your hair”

Friends who had gotten a rare glimpse of it’s true form would say, trying to convince me to join them in the pool. Countless summers I spent cooking under the sun by choice. Refusing to put even a foot in the water as if it were lava. I feared the smallest drop would land on my head and un mask the monster that resides behind it. I was ashamed of my hair, myself, my blackness.

“ I love my hair”
I say now after four years of embracing the garden of hair with open arms. Even as I struggle to find the nutrients to make it flourish and the techniques to allow it to sit just right. It is loud when it is let down to speak, grows bigger as the wind brushes by. My curls have healed from the abuse I have put them through. Today they thrive, just like I , My hair was never meant to conform to society's demands. And Whenever my eyes land , I am reminded no one has hair like me and that’s why

I love my hair.