on Kinky Curls

So my hair’s natural. When I say natural, I don’t mean the no-relaxer-but-I-rock-a-Dominican-wash-and-press natural. I’ve decided that the best name for my hair is kinky curl natural. My hair prefers to settle in a wooly nap with a barely perceptible tendril curl at the tip­­– hence the name kinky curl.

But the kinky curl that I’ve grown so fond of is the result of years of hard work. I’ve sworn off the press and curl, and yes, they were still calling it that when I used to frequent the hair shop. I managed to survive the vein-popping, awkward length stage when any handy scissors would almost certainly be used to complete the finishing touches to my hairdo. Newly purchased products too often made it to the trashcan, because they were too greasy, dried my hair out, or dribbled down my forehead, giving me acne or stinging my eyes. And there’s no forgetting the days of experimenting, when I would leave the house rocking a new hairstyle and take note of people’s responses, asking myself, “Are the Black people looking at me like I’m crazy?” Followed by, “Are the White people looking at me like I’m crazy?” Those days are far in between now, but every once in a while you’ll catch me boldly stepping out with a new style­– one that I’m just not quite sure about yet. I’ve grown alongside my hair, and now there’s a third question, “Do I really give a damn what other people think?” So even when (not if) I look jacked up, I strut still, crowned by an incorrigible do that deserves nothing less than to be worn with the utmost confidence.

Yes, my hair’s natural, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t require work. I think that’s one of the biggest misperceptions of the natural-headed. We do our hair just like you do yours. Even locs, which I place under the category of a ‘natural style,’ require the effort of twisting every loc on your head at intervals determined by the amount of new growth nap you are comfortable with. The more comfortable you are with God’s nap, the less you’ll find yourself twisting that new growth.

When I tire from the daily effort that is required from my basic natural, I typically gear myself up for the 4 - 7 hour transition to a natural style. My style of choice is the two-stranded twist. And though I find myself complimented often and asked that utterly affirming phrase for the Black woman, “Girl, who did your hair?” – I have to let my dirty little secret out. I only twist because I don’t know how to braid extensions into my hair, cornrow, or flat twist. . . I don’t have enough upper arm strength to blow out my hair. . . And oh yeah, I’m cheap, so it has to be the most special of occasions for me to pay someone else to do my hair. But like I said it’s my dirty little secret, so most often I smile and toss back, “Oh girl, thank you. I did.”

Even after the twists are in, I still have to make the effort to keep them neat. In my personal preference, I’m all nap and fuzz when I’m rocking my fro, but when the twists are in I like them tight. I figure, what’s the point of 7 hours of twisting if I’m still going to have to do double-takes in the mirror just to check my edges? So I retwist weekly and each morning I strategically remove my shower cap with approximately 2 minutes left to my shower. It is this dreaded object that sometimes triggers full-fledged flashbacks to the relaxed days of my youth when I used to do and sacrifice anything just to keep my hair from getting wet, like using the textbook during a freak rainstorm even though I knew my homework for that morning was nestled inside, sigh. After removing my shower cap, my natural style finally requires the ease of effort that many Black woman, some secretly and others more vocally, want: Wet lightly and shake it out like a White girl.

And though I have arrived at this point, I never forget, nor do I devalue what it has taken to get here. There has been foolishness sitting atop my head, even teary-eyed anger when my hair refused to do what I wanted it to do or what I saw it doing on other folks’ heads. There was also damage states when I forced it do it anyway. But more importantly was the tremendous amount of growth I experienced as I learned to listen to my body, my hair simply an extension of it, or the boost in self-confidence as I finally accepted my God-given hair type. This point that I’ve arrived at is not one where I celebrate the fact that in the mornings, I get to wet lightly and shake it out like a White girl, but it’s one in which I celebrate a journey that has ended in the knowledge that my Black hair is to be revered in all its complexity and beauty.