braiding pain with beauty: a memory.

I don’t remember specific appointments, but I do remember going to Ngozi’s house to get my hair braided and the general vibe she’d built. Sitting for hours – sometimes days– in front of the TV, watching shows far beyond my level of maturity. Sex, drugs, crime, and everything adult. It was my favorite part of going. My least - the pain of prepping my head. It had always been a while since my last relaxer, and of course, with a predominantly 4c head, I was and am tender-headed. She’d comb it out and part it, and clip it into sections, but it didn’t take long for my hairs to find each other again, like lovers who couldn’t stand to be apart. So every braid required that my hair be parted and combed out again before she could begin. 

I’d started getting relaxers before 5 years old, probably sooner, though I don’t remember, and my mom hates to admit it. Much too young, in my opinion, but she didn’t know what to do with her nappy-headed baby. She's light-skinned and has “good hair,” and being pretty was her given mission in life, maybe assigned by her mother, who was the same. What could she do with her chocolate, caramel, and honey-colored baby with soft, resilient coils? When she had corporate ladders to climb, a Black boy to raise, and a husband to tolerate - what was left for me? So she’d drop me off with Ngozi at the beginning of summer to get my summer braids, so I’d be ready to swim with the white kids at camp.

The pain didn’t stop in the chair, though. After hours (or days) of pulling, yanking, pushing, with instants of greasy reprieve, I’d ride in the car on the way home, with a headache and tightness across my forehead that would last 2 to 3 days. It would be hard to sleep, especially after covering my head with a scarf tied as tightly as my little hands could get. Then, as if to mock me, it would make its way to the foot of the bed by morning. Was it worth it? I never felt pretty or smart when it was all done, just a little more acceptable to them. Was it worth it to be able to swim with the kids who said my skin was the color of shit and my hair looked like furry snakes? 

Remind me to tell you about the day my braid came out and floated away in the pool when I’d begged Ngozi to make them loose. Another story for another time because my head hurts thinking about that day today.