She Saw Me Without My Wig
I am someone who tends to over think and over-plan things. Honestly, the only way to keep my brain less scattered is to be ready for anything. I like to know how my days will be scheduled in order to be fully prepared for any little thing that might come up.
I’ve been getting to know someone special for a couple months now, and, she is super dope! I'm really enjoying the time we get to spend together. She’s kind, sweet, funny and we have good conversations, which is so rare these days. Not to mention, she seriously turns me on at the best moments… but that’s another blog post entirely!
For my birthday in March, she surprised me with tickets to a Broadway show I was dying to see, called The Prom - and truthfully, it was the sweetest gift I had gotten in a while. I wanted to look amazing the night of the show - not solely for her, but for myself as well. I wanted to feel confident, like the Queen I am in my head. The night came and I had on my best hair: a long wavy dark brown unit I got for myself for my birthday. My best friend had called it "one of my top wigs" so I was pretty confident about wearing it. I had on a teal and white, floral, chiffon blouse and white pants, and my face was beat to the GAWDS. I felt so cute! (I hoped she would think so too.)
The night was going amazing. Seated in the Orchestra section of the Longacre Theatre, she held my hand as the velvet curtain was drawn and the show proceeded to blow me away. At one point I peeked over and caught her tearing up towards the end. (Can you say Swoon?!) The show was everything I imagined it would be, and my date was a beautiful woman who liked me enough to plan this night for me. My cheekbones were sore from smiling so hard!
On our way home, as we were getting into her car I did not foresee her spraining her ankle. It happened so fast I didn't even know she was hurt. She sprained it so badly it started to swell immediately. We realized that it would be impossible for her to make it up the steps to my apartment, which was where we had planned to finish the evening. So Instead we went to her apartment to have dinner. I figured, since it was so late, that I would possibly sleep over. I had slept over before, and it was no big deal. But this time was different. This time, I was wearing a wig. I did not come prepared with a scarf to hide my nappy, unkempt braids. (This is the sort of thing I like to plan for…) She handed me a pair of shorts and a t-shirt so I could get comfortable. By reflex, I reached to take off my wig, but stopped suddenly. Aside from my family, the only people who have seen me that comfortable were my roommates and my ex. We were sitting on her bed, watching 7th Heaven, and I leaned back to get more comfortable. The combs in the back of the wig suddenly jabbed into my scalp. Shit. I thought to myself. I can not sleep like this!
She had never seen me without my hair done. Underneath the long wavy locs of the unit, I was sporting 4 thin, fuzzy, busted, 2 week old cornrows that no person was ever meant to see - and she was about to. We had only been seeing each other casually for 3 months. I still want to look like nothing less than a SNACK when she sees me. The bottom line is, I just do not feel confident and comfortable when I don’t have my hair done.
I tapped her on the shoulder while she was into the show, and she turned to give me her attention. “I have to do something,” I said, realizing how random and cryptic that statement was. She raised an eyebrow and I said “I have to take off my wig.” She shrugged and said “So take it off.” She turned back to the show like it was no big deal. Even though she gave me the go-ahead, I still sat there for another 15 minutes with the wig still on my head, debating if there was any way I would be able to sleep comfortably with it on.
As a kid, I was bullied for the way I wore my hair. When all the girls were getting their hair relaxed, I was one of the only ones whose hair was considered “nappy.” I remember once in 6th grade, my [white] teacher pulled me aside and gave me a suggestion on how to make my hair “stylish.” She waited until the class had gone to gym, and went into her desk. She pulled out a butterfly clip and showed me how it held up her silk-straight, blond strands, and released them at the top like a waterfall of gold ribbons. After the lesson I was so embarrassed, all I could think to do was thank her and get to gym class as fast as possible.
I bought a cheap butterfly clip at the corner store one day.
Tugged my dark cotton blossom into a twist and pinned it down like a fight.
It did not fall in ribbons.
It did not stay down as easily as self-esteem
As easily as a broken spirit.
(Excerpt from my poem “On Having Nappy Hair in Elementary School)
It was because of moments like that one, that lead me to beg my mom to relax my hair during 6th grade. She sat me down and told me how soft and pretty the texture of my natural hair was, and that I really didn’t need a relaxer. But I just wanted the bullying to stop, so I got one anyway.
Sixth grade was the year I begged my mom for a relaxer.
The only year I cried during the burning.
I will always remember that first burning.
I walked into school that Monday,
my scalp a mess of concealed scabs
And dark limp strands grazing my shoulders.
I thought I had won.
I thought a head of straight hair would keep the bullies at bay,
like a repellent.
Even after the relaxer, I felt ugly. My once full, soft, natural hair was now flat and straight and accentuated how chubby my face was. When I came into school that Monday, i remember a classmate, who had always been cruel to me, went behind me and announced that it was time for the “Perm test.” While the whole class watched, she made a show of running her fingers through my hair to see if they would get caught in a tangle. I flinched when her nail caught onto a knot, because my scalp was still tender. Even with hair like I was “supposed” to have, I was still being humiliated. Moments like those, though they are over in minutes, create dents that last well into adulthood.
I’ve been getting to know someone special for a couple months now, and, she is super dope! I'm really enjoying the time we get to spend together. She’s kind, sweet, funny and we have good conversations, which is so rare these days. Not to mention, she seriously turns me on at the best moments… but that’s another blog post entirely!
For my birthday in March, she surprised me with tickets to a Broadway show I was dying to see, called The Prom - and truthfully, it was the sweetest gift I had gotten in a while. I wanted to look amazing the night of the show - not solely for her, but for myself as well. I wanted to feel confident, like the Queen I am in my head. The night came and I had on my best hair: a long wavy dark brown unit I got for myself for my birthday. My best friend had called it "one of my top wigs" so I was pretty confident about wearing it. I had on a teal and white, floral, chiffon blouse and white pants, and my face was beat to the GAWDS. I felt so cute! (I hoped she would think so too.)
The night was going amazing. Seated in the Orchestra section of the Longacre Theatre, she held my hand as the velvet curtain was drawn and the show proceeded to blow me away. At one point I peeked over and caught her tearing up towards the end. (Can you say Swoon?!) The show was everything I imagined it would be, and my date was a beautiful woman who liked me enough to plan this night for me. My cheekbones were sore from smiling so hard!
An Unexpected Twist
On our way home, as we were getting into her car I did not foresee her spraining her ankle. It happened so fast I didn't even know she was hurt. She sprained it so badly it started to swell immediately. We realized that it would be impossible for her to make it up the steps to my apartment, which was where we had planned to finish the evening. So Instead we went to her apartment to have dinner. I figured, since it was so late, that I would possibly sleep over. I had slept over before, and it was no big deal. But this time was different. This time, I was wearing a wig. I did not come prepared with a scarf to hide my nappy, unkempt braids. (This is the sort of thing I like to plan for…) She handed me a pair of shorts and a t-shirt so I could get comfortable. By reflex, I reached to take off my wig, but stopped suddenly. Aside from my family, the only people who have seen me that comfortable were my roommates and my ex. We were sitting on her bed, watching 7th Heaven, and I leaned back to get more comfortable. The combs in the back of the wig suddenly jabbed into my scalp. Shit. I thought to myself. I can not sleep like this!
She had never seen me without my hair done. Underneath the long wavy locs of the unit, I was sporting 4 thin, fuzzy, busted, 2 week old cornrows that no person was ever meant to see - and she was about to. We had only been seeing each other casually for 3 months. I still want to look like nothing less than a SNACK when she sees me. The bottom line is, I just do not feel confident and comfortable when I don’t have my hair done.
I tapped her on the shoulder while she was into the show, and she turned to give me her attention. “I have to do something,” I said, realizing how random and cryptic that statement was. She raised an eyebrow and I said “I have to take off my wig.” She shrugged and said “So take it off.” She turned back to the show like it was no big deal. Even though she gave me the go-ahead, I still sat there for another 15 minutes with the wig still on my head, debating if there was any way I would be able to sleep comfortably with it on.
Dark Roots
As a black woman, hair is extremely significant. A black woman’s hair can be a status symbol, a way to stand out, a way to fit in, a security blanket, or even an act of protest. I guess if I am being honest with myself, having different styles with hair extensions is my security blanket. I love the way I feel the day after I get long box braids or cornrows with an afrocentric design. I feel more attractive with hair that is longer, more curly, more voluminous, more...everything. Hair that isn't mine...As a kid, I was bullied for the way I wore my hair. When all the girls were getting their hair relaxed, I was one of the only ones whose hair was considered “nappy.” I remember once in 6th grade, my [white] teacher pulled me aside and gave me a suggestion on how to make my hair “stylish.” She waited until the class had gone to gym, and went into her desk. She pulled out a butterfly clip and showed me how it held up her silk-straight, blond strands, and released them at the top like a waterfall of gold ribbons. After the lesson I was so embarrassed, all I could think to do was thank her and get to gym class as fast as possible.
I bought a cheap butterfly clip at the corner store one day.
Tugged my dark cotton blossom into a twist and pinned it down like a fight.
It did not fall in ribbons.
It did not stay down as easily as self-esteem
As easily as a broken spirit.
(Excerpt from my poem “On Having Nappy Hair in Elementary School)
It was because of moments like that one, that lead me to beg my mom to relax my hair during 6th grade. She sat me down and told me how soft and pretty the texture of my natural hair was, and that I really didn’t need a relaxer. But I just wanted the bullying to stop, so I got one anyway.
Sixth grade was the year I begged my mom for a relaxer.
The only year I cried during the burning.
I will always remember that first burning.
I walked into school that Monday,
my scalp a mess of concealed scabs
And dark limp strands grazing my shoulders.
I thought I had won.
I thought a head of straight hair would keep the bullies at bay,
like a repellent.
Even after the relaxer, I felt ugly. My once full, soft, natural hair was now flat and straight and accentuated how chubby my face was. When I came into school that Monday, i remember a classmate, who had always been cruel to me, went behind me and announced that it was time for the “Perm test.” While the whole class watched, she made a show of running her fingers through my hair to see if they would get caught in a tangle. I flinched when her nail caught onto a knot, because my scalp was still tender. Even with hair like I was “supposed” to have, I was still being humiliated. Moments like those, though they are over in minutes, create dents that last well into adulthood.
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