And All That Hair

You guys, I hate going to the beauty salon. Hate it. I avoid it for as long as possible, and sometimes longer than should be permissible.

It's ironic, though, because every time I go, I get showered with compliments. Every black woman inside takes a moment to ooh and ahh over my "good hair." And at the risk of sounding obnoxious and ungrateful, I'd like to admit that it's kinda the worst.

Do you know what good hair is? You probably do, and you probably have seen the Chris Rock documentary. If you haven't, check it out sometime. Hair is this powerful concept that you learn very early on will affect the way people look at you. It's a competition, it's a choice, and often it's a complicated burden.

In my case, on a Saturday morning when I've taken the time to wash it, it looks a little like this.

Talk about an undertaking. If you've met me and thought I washed this mess daily, this photo should convince you otherwise. I aim for weekly. Even that was more realistic pre-kids. Now I try for the least frequently that can still remain presentable and hygienic. Sometimes that's my approach to showering too. Just kidding. Kinda. Not really. Anyway.

The other day I got to thinking about my hair and how it's a pain and I should do something about it. I told J-Man I was going to make an appointment. I hadn't had a relaxer since June. (This is something I always lie about at the salon, and pretend it's only been 3 months, or a number less outlandish than my typical 5-7. It's one of few lies I just can't not tell.) You know what happened though? I changed my mind.

I said it out loud, "I'm going to make a hair appointment," and then I quickly decided against it. I didn't want to make the call. I didn't want to try to remember the lady who did it the last time. I didn't want to lie about when I was there last. I really didn't want to go and sit in a chair and be complimented on something for which I can take zero credit beyond inheriting a specific set of genes. I also didn't want to awkwardly assess whether I was black enough to participate in the conversation, laughing at the right jokes, using the right lingo, and appropriately thanking everyone for their interest in these eighteen inches or so I often dream of shaving off.

On a meta level I didn't want to sit and think about how having these thoughts are, for the most part, not at all the fault of the other people in the salon. They're instead a twisted mix of insecurities in my own identity, cemented over three decades of walking the light-skinned tightrope as a black, Mormon, nearly six-foot, ivy league, small town, never-fitting-in girl. Woman.

Going to a hair salon brings out every fear I have about the construct of beauty and my inability to accept that I both want to be, and yet fear the process of becoming, beautiful. I tell myself I want inner beauty. I don't need people to look at me and use words like "stunning" or "gorgeous." But don't I? Doesn't everyone? At least, a little bit? Doesn't it feel amazing to look in the mirror when the stylist is finished and see a set of locks you want to flip around as your love takes you to a fancy dinner or spins you around a dance floor? Can't you laugh like nothing matters because you feel the eyes of the room deciding you're worthy of their gaze?

Most days I look in the mirror and I shrug at what I see. There's a girl. She's getting wrinkles and her eyes carry bags of dark exhaustion. Her smile's ok. Her nose will do. When she stands tall, she looks like she's doing all right. And that hair, it'll work. Just braid it to the side like Elsa. Or twist it into a bun and slap a scrunchie around it. Pull it tight and ignore everything it makes you think about who you are. Spend your time on sleep, or your kids, or packing a lunch so you're not starving by seventh period.

But sometimes, after my darling husband has given my confidence the boost I need to make the call, schedule the appointment, let Miss S keep the boys the first day of Thanksgiving break, and step foot into the salon, I come out looking like this.

Maybe not stunning. Maybe not gorgeous. But I survived. I felt shamefully happy with the outcome. I changed my profile picture. I decided it was all right to indulge in a little vanity. I took family photos for our Christmas card and I secretly felt happy to have my hair. Typing this now it feels so silly to say. I'd be happy with any hair, right? It shouldn't be so weighted a statement to make. I should love it however it looks. I should love myself however I look.

One day I might.

For now, the question remains - how long until I have to wash it again? Surely not before J-Man's work party tonight!