Note 4 ☕️
4.
Wigging out Part One
Remember when wigs were for older adults heading to church or a nice event? In pictures of my grandmother, my mother's mother, would be her stylish fashions and a wig or hairpiece. Fabulous. Time passed before I truly realized the joy (and anxiety) of wigs.
Growing up in small-town NC, going to the hairdresser was a whole mood. Pressing my hair bone straight was a painstaking process. Moms, aunties, hairdressers tamed the “nappy” parts of the hair and edges with lots of heat. This was the 80s.
I was terrified for my mom to use the hot comb on my hair at home. It wasn't her I was most afraid of; it was the heat of the comb crackling near my ear. Memories of that comb situation makes my skin tingle now.
Braiding was difficult for me to endure, especially when I couldn't feel my scalp for a week afterward. Too tight. I wore them proudly during the summer and while away at summer camp where swimming was a highlight.
Surprisingly, I could endure the pain of Saturdays in the hairdresser's chair, which I did repeatedly for years. Couldn't go out with nappy, untamed roots and poofy hair. That simply wasn't acceptable if planning to leave the house for the day.
The jheri curl was next. My hair was now curly. I sprayed my hair with plenty of moisture-giving activator, and I no longer needed that scary hot comb. However, I thought it made me look awkward — like a shiny, short-haired, unglamorous tween. It was not cute, nor was I.
When I see myself in pictures from that era, I’m mortified. Along with the jheri curl came prescription glasses, signifying the beginning of my nerd emo girl phase. Black was my favorite color then. Painting the bedroom walls black was goals, of course. It didn’t happen. My room was painted pink with a cute pattern. It was a pepto bismol pinky pink. Yes, it was.
Before the start of my 7th grade year, my stylist introduced me to the lovely relaxer, the creamy chemical crack. Going from curls to bone straight meant endurance, I quickly learned. Keeping the relaxer on my scalp longer meant straighter hair, and that was the goal. How long could you endure the chemicals on your head to get the most silky, fresh outcome. As I grew older, the relaxer became the standard. Just try not to get your hair wet.
As I walked into my new school following my first relaxer, I thought I was pretty fresh, pretty fly. I wore an updo with fingerwaves from my edges up, encircling my head, and at the top were barrel curls falling towards the front near my face. I looked like Prince circa Diamonds and Pearls era.
To find my 7th grade section, I had to walk past most of the students. Walking across the gym felt like a beauty pageant where I knew the judges didn’t like me. Some kids looked at me and snickered. Some made comments about my hair and clothes. I thought I was fresh and stepping into glamour days. Instead, I crawled inside my protective shell and disappeared internally. My self-esteem was lower than it had ever been.
Armed with a mechanical pencil and a blank journal, I began to write. Getting lost intentionally in writing was the way I survived middle and high school. Writing was my therapy and still is.
After my embarrassing entrance on my first day of school, I looked at the hair on top of people’s heads. I studied certain girls in my classes. What they wore. How their hair bounced. The wrap was in. Every night I wrapped my bone-straight silky hair around my head and covered it with a satin scarf. Aaliyah was growing in popularity. I was trying to have hair like hers.
One morning, the wrap didn’t lay down quite right when I started unwrapping it. I didn’t sleep pretty. When I combed my hair to achieve the wrap effect, the ends of my hair would not lay down. The ends of the hair jutted outward and started getting bushy. What shall I do?
I found some scissors and cut the offending part of my hair. Done.
Read on for Wigging Out Part 2
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