Last year, I started writing about the journey that is my hair. Now I’ve finally put words to emotions. An exerpt:
And then I toyed with an almost sacrilege idea for sisters like me: What would it be like to get a relaxer again? I envisioned combing and styling my obedient follicles into trendy styles, hot-setting my thick tendrils and watching them bounce in all their full glory. And why not? Then and there, the decision was made. I didn’t tell a soul what I was doing. I just marched into a salon with such a determination, that I knew I could never turn around. But was this the right decision? I watched as the stylist parted my virgin locks into sections, preparing to add the chemical. Looking at my hair, she asked me if I wanted a blow-out instead of a full-on relaxer. I didn’t flinch. But then it hit me. Just as she began to apply the crème I wanted to scream “Stop! I’ve changed my mind! I don’t want this anymore!” But it was too late. The process had begun. I cried bitterly inside, but I couldn’t dare let the stylist know what I was going through. She might’ve thought I was half crazy. As the tears welled up in my eyes, I faintly told her that I was sensitive to the chemical smell. But really, I just kept asking myself, “How could you do this? How could you give in and let your sisters down?”
Read the entire story in the Beauty section of Lavish.