It's Time for a Touch-Up

Every black woman knows what this means. From a very young age, she has either been told this, or heard the women around her being told this. This phrase is usually accompanied by someone running their fingers through your hair, scraping your scalp. What needs to be "touched up" is the new growth of unprocessed hair that has (miraculously) grown, despite being in the harshest of chemical environments. The day before your "touch-up" is spent being scolded, or scolding yourself, for scratching your scalp. Scratching irritates your scalp, and when a no-lye relaxer is applied, you will burn. It will be a chemical burn, that will leave scabs, sores and hurt like a mutha.

My mother meant no harm when she and her friend, Ms. Daphne slathered my 8 year old scalp with PCJ Kiddie Perm. She wasn't trying to get any information about WMDs when she implored me to just sit still while my scalp burned from the previous days' scratching. (Giving suspected terrorists a relaxer would be an effective tactic, trust me.) All my young mother knew was that I was taking swimming lessons, the chlorine was ruining my hair and making it unmanageable, and she was working full time. Before I got my hair relaxed, my mother would spend half of her Saturday pressing my hair with a hot comb. I'd been burned with the "hot comb," which had to be heated by the stove, but it didn't burn like a perm. The hot comb burn cooled quickly, burned only the surface of the skin and scabbed quickly. The perm burn was first a wound that would have to scab and then heal. I hated getting perms, but the way the perm made me feel, kept me chasing that dragon for two decades.

The permed hair was impervious to water exposure. I'd spent my hot comb days dodging the rain, and not sweating too profusely on the playground. My hair would curl up when wet, and that meant my long, straight hair would disappear. Even as a young girl, I knew to run from the rain. With my permed hair, I could take my swimming lessons and comb through my wet straight hair like a big girl. My hot comb hair made me cry, and I couldn't comb it out without assistance. It was thick, curly, and wooly. Once I was introduced to the relaxer, also known as the perm (every drug has several monikers), I never thought about going natural.

I had to use stronger perms as I got older, used them more often, used bill money to pay for visits to salons, and often found myself applying them alone, even though I knew it was bad for my hair. When people said my hair looked good, I'd immediately touch my roots to make sure there was no visible "new growth." Using relaxers never made my hair healthier, in fact my hair got progressively worse over the years. As an adult, to capture that original high I felt the first time I felt my long, straight relaxed hair flowing down the middle of my back, I picked up something to "lace" my creamy crack with: Weave.

Weave covered up my habit. It was like eye drops to cover my weed-smoke eyes. Perfume over my cigarette smoke. Breath mints for my liquor breath. The only thing I had to do now, was "keep my edges right." The "edges" refer to the hairline. If someone has messed up edges and long hair down their back, no matter how "real" the long hair looks, the edges tell the truth. Just ask Naomi Campbell. So began the next saga of my life on the creamy crack. I would have to get a perm BEFORE I got extensions, depending on the style. That's like washing and ironing your clothes before you take them to the dry cleaners.

The world of weave is unreal. Pun intended. You can be anyone you wanna be. I used to joke about my "Puerto Rican" half wigs, or my "Pocahontas" sew-in. I knew that my light complexion and features afforded me the opportunity to look exotic. I never considered that I was hiding who I really was. This is not true for a lot of women. Some women view hair as an accessory, as a fashion statement, as a way to really express themselves. I have friends that can rock purple wigs, blond extensions, fire red braids-- they can work it like champs. For me, I was obsessed with the presentation. I would miss special occasions if my hair wasn't right. I would miss work if I needed to get my hair done. I never veered into the world of wild colors and styles, I always wanted to use the unnatural weave to look as natural as possible.

 I know there are women that have beautiful, long, healthy relaxed hair, and if that works for them, keep slathering it on, my sista. For me, it was really a drug habit. Oddly enough, as I grow out my relaxer, I look like a drug addict. A crackhead, if you will.

Even as I write this, I am scheduled to have more weave put into my head. I am not bold enough to cut off all of my relaxed hair and rock the "mini afro." As I kick my crack habit, I still need my cigarettes. My hair is more than unhealthy. It is broken, confused, and double-minded. I have natural roots and permed ends. The middle is broken off and shorter than the rest.

My boyfriend has scolded me for my obsession with going natural. He will no longer even discuss the state of my hair when there are REAL issues to address. I have his support, I just no longer have his ear, hence the creation of this blog :) To me, this is so much more than my hair. This is my chance to fall in love with myself from head to toe. To love my natural hair that I grew to hate as a little girl. I love the way it feels, and I look forward to the day when I can shed all of my insecurities about my hair.

I don't know what my natural hair will be like. It could curl like Cree Summer or kink like Tracy Chapman. I haven't seen it in over 20 years. But I am determined to get through this ugly stage. I am convinced that at the end of my nappy rainbow, there will be a better version of me.

The road to natural beauty is paved with a little bit of ugly... :)