Source; Pixabay
The hairdresser violently combs my hair; even though I was little, I can still remember how knotted and tangled it was due to inappropriate care; she barely detangled it nor added water to reduce the pain. The cheeseball then being so cheesy could not still compensate for my pains, as I loudly screamed for help, but it was futile. Ma Jacinta, as we fondly called her then, transferred aggressions to me from only God knows where, because now I would have probably figured out her problems.
This angered my mom. In addition to the mornings, I refused to have my hair combed because of the pains, but I flaunted my beautiful hair with so much joy when it was over; regardless, I was still matched down to the salon to cut my hair. As a child, our beauty mainly lay in the numbers of beads we wore, the shape, color, and type; going all bald like an Africa queen was omitted.
I went to school the next day, “my steeze” was diminished, and everyone, including the teacher, owing to my popularity, kept asking if my hair was on vacation to visit the Queen. I felt so high-strung that I really never wanted to show my face in school again, yet I was not left with much of a choice.
Growing older, I was asked sometimes If I were a boy, my mom cautioned us to not use lines on our front hair to avoid lacking them in the future; this made it worse. The only advantage was me having to pour water from my head to my feet. My secondary, we were not also allowed to braid our hair, so the low cut continued. Going to church became more of a struggle because I felt I would have appeared more appealing to the eyes with braids, and maybe arising from the oppression from other teenagers in church, I never mingled with them because I felt I was not as beautiful as they were that still got to me even when I started wearing braids. Maybe that’s where I developed my character of being reserved.
After that phase of life had ended, I was given a choice to grow my hair if I wanted; at least by then Ma Jacinta was no more in our lives. I could go to a real salon and get a proper hair treatment, though at first I felt traumatized. What could be the worst that could happen? I said to myself. The day came, and I paced into the salon with my head high up. My hair was properly washed, detangled, and braided without any stink of pain. I was marveled; it felt like a miracle not having to go through so much pain.
Attending only girls’ school, I only heard of the flattering done by men; I never got any experience till college. Advancing to college, I got a lot of flattery from men about how beautiful I am. I did not feel any surge of energy that breeds joy because of the rumors I heard, but that all changed when I started getting more compliments from my fellow women. Most people would comment on my smile, my looks generally, my eyes, and my voice. I had to retake a proper look at myself; I was like, damn girl, you are beautiful. I decided to let go of my past and reshape my future into one as beautiful as I am.
Although beauty lays in the eyes of the beholder, I am my beholder, and I am beautiful...
