The other night when my husband came home from his gig he was a tiny bit upset with me. Before going on stage he went to the bathroom and when he saw himself in the mirror he was shocked because his hair was a slight bit askew. “How could you let me leave the house like that?” he asked. “You knew I was going to be on stage in front of people.”
I couldn’t help but laugh when he told me. You see, honestly, just before he left the house I noticed that his hair was looking something like this…
…but he was running late. I meant to tell him, but in the mad rush of helping him carry his equipment to the car I forgot. Yes, I could’ve called him on his cell, but I didn’t. He plays the bass. Whose going to look at him during the performance…other bass players? Other bass players aren’t going to notice his hair. Heck, they probably all have the exact same hairdo.
So he was introduced to lots of people with his crazy hairdo. He hung out. He ate some food. Then he noticed it and I think he ended up wearing a wool hat during the performance. Every time I think about it I start laughing. Even now while writing this post, I’m laughing.
When I was a little girl I wanted long hair. I used to put a towel or pillowcase on my head and pretend it was my beautiful long hair. I used to try to style my pillowcase in a ponytail or bun, but those never really worked out.
As an adult, I’m constantly saying I want to let my hair grow, but scissors keep preventing me from reaching my long hair goals. The last time I visited my family in Florida my mother and sister commented on how long my hair was. It was long. When I stretched my hair it reached the middle of my back. I was feeling good about my new length. I was feeling so good about it that I cut it off as soon as I got home. Now it’s shoulder length but because of curly hair shrinkage it looks about chin length.
I’ve make a new commitment to grow my hair long. I’m throwing all of the scissors in the house away so I’m not tempted to cut it. If I get desperate I guess I could always use the dangerous knife to cut it.
Sometimes when I go to my local grocery store I see a white family there who is raising a black girl. The girl is about five and every time I see them the girl’s skin looks all dry and ashy and her hair is dry and matted. I used to see families like this quite often when I went to college in Vermont and I always complained. If you’re going to adopt a child of a different ethnicity than yourself shouldn’t take some time to learn some simple things about how to care for that child. Can’t you see that your baby is ashy and something needs to be done about it? I just don’t understand.
In this day in age there are plenty of resources online to help white parents manage their black children’s hair. I look at some of these sites and they do a good job at explaining what to do about your child’s hair. My favorite site is Happy Girl Hair.
Today I was reading a post on Curly Nikki and she linked to a story about a white father who learned how to do his Ethiopian daughter’s hair. Even though he uses a plastic fork to make the parts he does a good job.
I’ve decided to let my hair grow out. I’ve always wanted long hair. When I was a little girl I’d put a bath towel over my head and pretend it was my long hair. I’d flip it this was and that and say things like, “Don’t you love my beautiful long hair?”
I normally keep my hair cut to just about jaw length, but once every couple of years I decide to grow it long. That’s how long it takes me to forget what happened the last time I tried to grow my hair long. It gets bigger not longer.
In this badly taken picture (I’m yet to master the art of photographing myself) my hair doesn’t look much longer than it was when I first moved to the UK. But if I stretch my hair out….
…it’s well past my shoulders. See. See. I told you it’s grown.
If I continue to let it grow, it’ll just get bigger and bigger until I become the woman no one wants to sit behind in the movie theater. The idea of that used to make me feel really self-conscious, but now I don’t care. I’m ready to be that woman. I don’t like it when people sit behind me in the movie theater anyway. They always kick the back of my seat.
Today I noticed that my husband’s hair was looking a bit funny. When I touched it, I realized it felt funny too. “What’s up with your hair?” I asked.
“I’m doing an experiment. How does it look?” He lowered his head so the I could get a good look at it.
“What kind of experiment?”
“I’ve stopped washing my hair. I just wet my head and rub it really hard. I think it’s working.”
“How long has it been since you’ve washed your hair?” I asked. Why he would do this experiment is beyond me?
“It’s been a week.”
A week too long. I had been wondering why his hair had been sticking up in all directions more than usual. “You should wash it.” I told him.
He grimaced and left the room.
I somehow doubt he’ll wash it tomorrow.
Just a minute ago he told me that he tried this experiment before and his family knows all about it. I assume it didn’t work then either.
So I decided to dread my hair. I’ve had dreads before. I lived and Korea for six years and hair products suitable for my hair were hard to come by, so I decided to dread it. My reason for dreading my hair now was just because I wanted a change.
I spent a little over hour putting two-strand twists in my hair to start my dreads. A week later, I decided I didn’t like the look of my twists and I took them out and spent about two hours carefully parting my hair and putting new two-strand twists in.
That was a week ago. This morning I decided that growing dreadlocks would be too much of a hassle at this point in my life. I took the twists out while I did the research for the latest page I added to my massage website.
To demonstrate my commitment not to dread my hair, I bought a hairbrush this afternoon. Here are some exciting pictures of me after using my new hairbrush.