CRAPPY ROOTS

By far the worst part of living in a new city is having to establish new relationships with people with whom you were quite comfortable in your old spot.

The absolute most gut-wrenching…who to let up in your hair.

Let me preface this by saying that I been a proud perm girl all my life. My hair hovers around my shoulders when I’ve had enough and “cut” it. I’m not tender headed in the least, but I’m also not one to fuss much with my hair. Low maintenance. Bump my ends and I’m straight. No weaves, scrunches, crunches, buns, never much elaborate art or architecture involved.

Nowadays, I look at pics from college and damn near weep. All that thick, shiny “glory” as my mom would call it. No matter if I was wrapped in a brown paper bag with matching brown booties, my hair was always in order. Edges obediently laying, ends clipped with precision.

Today my shit is like the before picture on an extreme make over show, and requires more attention than I prefer.

My ends are a mess, tho I try to clip them regularly.

I got stray greys sprouting from my middle part (which I actually think is kinda sexy and have no plan to dye).

Random sections of my hair are breaking without warning.

And my edges threaten to do “The Omari0n”.
I hate perms. Always have really, but lately the fire cream has been particularly insane. My scalp feels constantly tender. I’ve considered going natural before…but always went back to the comfort of the abusive relaxer relationship.

But last week I found myself at a crossroads as I walked into a new salon. A few weeks back I formed an expl0rat0ry c0mmittee to pursue going natural again. Maybe a cute nappy fro. Perhaps dreds (I apologize to those who find it offensive to call them anything but locs…but I’m Jamaican, and also not all that socially correct). The last time I was in Jamaica my brother told me to come with my shit grown out and he would "locs me". None of this loctician nonsense, he says. You let I and I decide how it should grow.

Not only am I not socially correct, but I’m not all that patient either…and I have a feeling I and I, and I might not see eye to eye. Needless to say, I’m a bit skeptical about going THAT natural.

So I haven’t decided whether I’m really ready to go the distance this time, but I do know I’m not succumbing to the perm just yet either. I’ll get some braids before I do that (which will require to get to know some Bawtuhmore Africans, unless I make a quick jet to my NYC Fast Fingers…”Hair braidin, Miss?”).

Since I been in BMore I been going to some Dominicans. In NY they’re literally across the street from my crib. And they’re $10 for a wash and doobie/blow dry (and my girl Lupe knows I don't do no hell-hot blow dryer). The ones here are not as fast or cheap, but they get the job done. No disrespect to them, but right now I need some direction with my glory and I need it in English.

So last week I walk into the new (black) spot and it’s cool. Not too packed. When I’m ushered to the chair (at the EXACT moment when Jud.ge Judy is bout to let this woman HAVE IT), I explain my hair issues again (we spoke on the phone earlier) and she’s receptive and nice. The salon is really spacious, so I’m not sitting on top of anyone. And yeah, the blond sista is a lil on the loud side, but she aint THAT ignorant. And aint nobody eating Chinese food up in there or nothing. I feel oddly comfortable.

Back in the day my hairdresser was a good friend of my parents. She gave me the best hook up ever when I got to middle school…she let me sweep the shop and clean up in exchange for free hairdos. Needless to say I was up in there every 6 weeks on the DOT, and this arrangement lasted thru high school.

Back then it was an all day affair of Jet magazines and Caribbean convo. Mostly really old ladies who loved that I always had a book in my hands.

So last week I lay back at the shampoo station and she does her thing, rolls me up as I requested and I retreat under the dryer, book in hand.

When I’m dry, I sit in the chair and I ask her if braids are the most healthy way to let my perm grow out. She’s baffled. Mind you, there’s a chick braiding hair just behind me. I explain to her that I know that braids are the most low maint. way of growing your hair out, but that I hear it can also eff with your hair, pull out your edges, etc.

Again, crickets.

“What do you plan to do when you grow it out?” she asks.

“I don’t know yet. Maybe rock a lil nappy fro. Dreds maybe. Im not really there yet, but I just know that I can’t keep putting these chemicals in it.”

And that’s that. No response. She works on in silence and I turn my attention to my text messages.

“How do you normally wear the front?”

I show her, and get lost in the episode of Fri.ends when Phoebe’s grandmother dies and she meets her Pops.

After a while I look up into the mirror to see what the hell is taking so long. Homegirl is literally playing in my hair. She’s baffled at what to do with it, if not burn it. The chick in front of me sat there for a good 45 minutes while the other stylist blow dried her, then flat ironed and pin curled her. I know enough to know that you not supposed to put direct heat on wet hair like that without some kind of spray or lotion or SOMETHING. And without my express destination being THAT, the stylist didn’t know what to do with me.

“It’s just so puffy,” she says of my new growth, and then combs me forward, apparently trying something new.

Am I naïve to believe that a black stylist ought to know something about black hair?

That if I have a question about breaking free from the bonds of burning and breakage, I need to go find a black power sista with a brush cut?

Frankly, you natural sistas tend to be a cultish clan. I’ve been to enough websites for natural hair (and let's not forget I go to a black school) to know that they don’t always take too kindly to a woman who simply enjoys the long straight look. Trust me, Queen Kinky, I’m not doing a Euro impersonation, nor do I “fear” my natural hair. I just like it long, like it healthy, like to not need to do much with it. And I just don't like the prospect of cutting it and "transitioning," yet I also no longer like relaxing it. And I like not to be judged for whatever the hell decision I make.

And I also happen to love playing in the nappy roots at the back of my head like recess, the rough wool a sharp contrast to my soft fingertips.

But guess what? Last time I had my shit cornrowed I discovered I got a smallish peanut head. So yeah, it’s just hair, and it can grow back, and God made us beautiful the way we are…but maybe, just maybe, im not ready to be Peanut Girl. And maybe, just maybe, I’m tired of said peanut being scorched and abused.

As with most things in my life, I’m somewhere in the middle, and I wanna be left there for a while.

Thank God I rock a mean Kang0l.

[You like how I acted like it hasnt been forever since my last post! Thanks for the emails checkin up on me and even for the ones downright demanding I stop slacking.]