It Is Your Hair-Rite-Age To Know Your Heritage

Nappily ever after is the reason why I came. To feel the anguish and never deny you again. Through toils and snares. Anger and despair. I yearn to learn about your fate and faithfully, willingly, totally accept that you will always care. Carefree but bold. Carved by the craftsman who cannot die or grow old. But, are we really just wool and cotton as they painted us to be? It is long overdue to change the narrative and the narrator. Woolly but still cushiony like the clouds. You bounce up and down my shoulders letting me know of your whereabouts. I look in the mirror and I see your shine. You lifted the depression that has been painted on my face for quite some time. Dark and coarse or fine and kinky are words that have manifested within me. Every time I touch your swirly, fluffy, frizzy, porous, thick, poufy and springy form I teleport to the time my hair-rite-age was almost gone. Gone physically but retained mentally. You who so never abandoned me even though I've done it countless times to you. I promise that it was not my doing.

My hair is like cocoa. It may seem hard and unmanageable. Crack me open and you will be speechless. I am multi-layered and ready to be pressed. Not the creamy crack way though. I prefer to use the exotic and natural version that I have finally learned how to slay. My hair is magical and mysterious. Untamed at dawn and peaceful at dusk. Who knew that cocoa can make chocolate delight? Delightful to be a part of this journey. Learning about my mane never cease to amaze me. If you wanna be wild and free I cannot stop you. If you wanna be shy and sweet I will cuddle with you. The varied characteristics of me is mostly because of you. You raised me. Claimed me. Never disregarded me. You saved me. The mirrored walls were an illusion that played me like a violin. Threaded lightly so that I can never break the ceiling. Alternatively, I threaded through the peaks of the window and went where ever the wind blows. Now I can learn to accept me for dismantling the misguiding myths that fostered centuries of hate.

Behold the one true love. The one to exude grace and glory from up above. I have no resentment for the times you made me look and feel "ugly." You were never ugly my friend. It was the one-dimensional lens they viewed you through that fogged up their image of me and you. So fogged up are they to scrutinize you inside and out. Isn't it ironic that my hair is black and so too is my skin? They must think my hair is cocoa at the roots which magically produces chocolate at the length that submerges and creates this melanated skin.

Skin so smooth and skin so soft. The sun brightens up each time one of us walks out. Out the door and down the street, will I ever be able to stroll in peace? Peace or pieces? The latter is executed more so because we are uneven. Uneven in the way we look, talk, walk, the jobs we hold and the children we bare so they say. Baring children is a gift. Too bad we spoil that gift by anticipating the colour of their skin and the texture of their hair and vice versa. Texturism walked so colourism can run. They crept up on us when we aren’t aware so they can reflect on the reasons why they don’t want us around.  Children must be born knowing that they are enough. You must be capable of educating them on their history. Shaping, influencing and motivating. The self-esteem must be at a boiling point. Otherwise, oh those poor souls will always validate the biases that they will eventually encounter each and every day.

Every night I lay in bed a million thoughts flood my head. My head was pounding. The overthinking. Overanalyzing. Over synthesizing. Overestimating. The tongue is more powerful than any physical harm. Physical wounds are healed. But, how do we effectively heal from the negative connotations and underlying slurs that make up our everyday thoughts, pronouns, adjectives and verbs?

Gosh, no wonder my hair is falling out.  All this time I thought it was alopecia. Each time they mention something negative towards my hair or appearance, ten strands of hair are quickly evicted because I don’t have money in my pocket to spare. The pressure is too much to bear. No wonder I was bawled the day I was born. Eviction started in the womb at conception. My mother must have been in so much pain. I wished I could help her eject the hate before it weakened her weakened me. Was my birth a celebration of life or an eviction not nice? The only way to find out is by living contrite. Contrite in mind, body and soul. Oh, this world was so bitter and so cold. But when we allow our hair to escape its home because of what they say, we also lose a piece of our ancestral train. The train that has no end. The train of thought, philosophy, life history, anthropology, diversity and so much more. There is a story in each hair strand, indoctrinated by God in his image and likeness.

It is never okay to bash another because what makes us special is the fact that we do not look like each other. The world would be such a boring place. Creation exists in all that we do. Take time to understand what it is really telling you. Some like history and some like art, some even like mathematics and that's a fact. All these subjects are not subjected to one race or ethnicity. We all have passions and should always desire to be the light. That hope. That grace. The light that shines the way for the next one in line. The one who will receive the baton and continue the legacy that you have trademarked so we all can see.

Many of us think we are living when we are merely existing. Some are so numb it is equivalent to death. Inside sets the tone for what is presented on the outside. Be careful of what you consume. It can trigger an off-balance of the flow of energy. It creates a lack of unity. Just like the way our hair hugs each other, clumped together, never apart. May we visualise life with each other growing old but never asunder. Alas, you have finally learned. Accept this baton it is your hair-rite-age. Never neglect it or you will burn to learn.

The Aesthetics of Black Afro Hair is Beautiful

But I Have Questions?

Morning has broken and the gods began waking up each hair strand. Do you know how long it takes to awaken each hair strand? My mind was uneasy and my hair looked "disgusting." It was dry, frizzy and knotty. You know, some of the words you use along with rough, unkempt and unruly just to name a few. Now, the derogatory remarks are all that I have ever known to be true. Is it true what they say about the thick hair that my mother used to plait? Why didn't mother tell me the history? What does my hair really want and need? How can I fully understand all of her components? You could tell it needed water. It was begging for war-ta. You do not hold the bucket that pours the water to wet my hair. So, why do you feel the need to criticise each angle of my mane? 

What did she ever do to you? My hair got up. She was talking to me. But, as always, I never listened. I continued pressing and pressing and pressing away, the roots and shaft of my hair to satisfy the trendy men. If only I had known better. If only it was taught in school. If only we had those around to tell us it was okay for our hair to soak up the sun and defy gravity. Damn it. Why didn't they tell us our hair had superpowers? 

I pulled my mane and she reverted to her shrunken state. Why do they make me feel bad because it bounces like a basketball but never reaches the basket? Wait! Am I awake?

My mind is always racing because I can never be satisfied. The integrity and diversity of each strand was always contested by the "other man." What did my hair ever do to you? Why is black hair not aesthetically pleasing? The style and culture make man take it over. It is beautiful on ah next but "disgusting" on my sis?

Does my mane make you feel uncomfortable? I see the way you scold and try to deflate her soul. When the souls of the dead reincarnate then and only then you will learn to appreciate, dedicate, locate, meditate and celebrate. The aesthetics of the strand is more than any man. It's like smoke and mirrors with you man. Why does it always have to be ah competition? Casting stones and storing pipe just to project that my hair naturally swells when wet or when I go to bed at night. 

I can't breathe. I need air. Stop the suffocation. Stop trying to cover me. Yuh know I will always get out. I will walk through the valleys in my armor and swim through the seas just to meet my ancestors at the horizon. They have been waiting patiently for me. To meet in the middle, reflect and discuss the aesthetics is all that I've been dreaming of. Nature understands me better than humans do. Yes, they do. The birds, the trees, the ocean and sea catch feelings and bow down to their knees. Whenever I take off the silk or satin bonnet or scarf you should see the joys in their little hearts.

I do not need to cultivate my hair to transform it to something of social use and value. Black hair does in fact have inherent aesthetic value. Black peoples' hair need not be worked upon to be considered beautiful.

Portray more faces and mane similar to mine because you genuinely believe it is one of a kind. Not just as a gimmick or marketing plan to sell hopeless dreams to us as you've planned. Put us in advertisements and make us shine. After all, aren't we the ones you really want? What is holding you back? Loss of revenue because my melanin is too dark? Or, I now understand. You tried to include us as a part of your master plan. How's that working out for yuh?

They tried to brand us and sell us off not knowing we would rise up from the ashes as the same spirit in different forms. 

When we remove the imaginary lines and dismantle the chains then we can rightfully and willingly rejoice our mane. 

Teach your kin to love and appreciate the mane in every little state. Then you will know you have done your part to get the next generation on the right path.