An Open Letter to My Hair, My Crown

You betwixt me.

Each strand of your defiance is something that pushes me harder to understand you, your will is my command.

You lead me on a journey unheard of by many women, as killing your soul with chemicals would have been their first task at hand....my first task too, but I was given a chance. Frances killed you, along with most of my child-self, and I resurrected you with impish spunk and calamitous youth.

I chopped off all of your lye soaked sprouts in a twisted double-visit pas de deux, and began the journey of getting to know the real you.

An end-result of Creole, Indian, and Black beings harmonizing together to create thee most un-harmonious mane this side of the Atlantic Ocean. Each and every single strand tight and perfectly spiraled like a bed spring, I hated you from the moment we met. However, I used your lemons to make Lemoncello, because nothing weaker could have prepared me for the journey ahead.

Days into weeks into months into years, tears, songs of sixpence, tears, tugging, ironing, blowing, twisting, yearning, none of which I enjoyed but needed to get through.

I knew that I needed to prove that beauty was beyond long, flaxen, ironed, hair, and I wouldn't stop until I felt the mirror reflected as such. Here we are 3 years, many haircuts, and weak moments later, and I love you; I love me. My relative beauty is present irregardless of my hair flow, length, or color.

So, I just wanted to send you a thanks for the help in guaranteeing my confidence will always be in place. They'll be days I'll still feel ugly, days that I still hate you, but moreover even on those days I'll know that beauty is in the eyes of the beholder....and these eyes behold an exquisite bounty!