I Am Not My Hair

I have two sisters and a brother. My sisters both have long hair and if my brother makes the effort to grow his hair, I know for a fact it will be longer and fuller than mine. My hair just doesn’t seem to grow beyond a certain length. I have tried many hair creams promising instant hair growth, I have trimmed split ends, trimmed ‘retouched’ portions, cut it all off and started again. I have tried egg yolk, egg white, aloe vera, onions in oil, olive oil, castor oil, coconut oil, shea butter, egg/honey/lemon combo, apple cider vinegar. Nothing works.

Growing up, my dad wanted girls to grow their hair and boys to trim theirs. I was getting ready for secondary school and would live in the boarding house. One of my biggest concerns wasn’t having to wake up early, bathing with cold water nor bullies (my older siblings had told me stories) but what would happen to my hair. By this time there was a lot of improvement with my hair – it was finally beginning to respond, it was growing and could pack in the middle, of course with a lot of effort, but packing all the same. I heard mom tell her sister I would have to cut my hair because she didn’t want me burdened with hair maintenance while trying to settle down at the boarding house. That got me fearful and agitated. Did she not realise it may refuse to grow ever again? I would be bald at 10!. Maybe I should forget about this secondary school business and go on to Primary 6. I talked to my dad, I had something on my chest, weighing me down and only he could help me. I told him my mother’s plans and he assured me there would be no need to cut my hair. I was happy. Daddy had spoken.

The week went by quickly. Mom was preparing – my uniforms and house wears were at the tailor’s, provisions bought, books, bank draft etc. Sometimes I would wake up in the middle of the night in a panic and check to see if my hair was still there. I’d remember dad’s reassuring words, relax and then go back to sleep.

Thursday to the day (Saturday) I was to leave, my mom called me. ‘Get ready when I am done sorting my room out, in the evening, we will go to the barber’. Barber???!!!!…I panicked. What do I do? Do I run away? To where? Mallam (as we called him) would not even allow me touch the gate. Dad had to come home and quickly too.

I waited and waited, then I heard the car horn it had never sounded so good. I rushed out and jumped into his arms as the driver pulled up. ‘Welcome daddy, mommy wants to cut my hair’, I quipped, ‘I don’t want to cut my hair’. My mom had come downstairs by this time and was searching for her car keys. My dad turned to me, ‘You have to do what your mommy says, it will grow back, don’t worry’. I was stunned. I felt deflated. I could not believe it. I thought he was in my corner. I watched him hug mom and then went up the stairs. I couldn’t even argue. I wore my green rubber slippers and sat in the front seat of her cream coloured Peugeot 504. The drive to the barber’s shop was short. I willed the forces to come to my rescue. I hoped my mother would change her mind. I hoped the car would develop a fault, maybe I might get lucky and the barber’s shop would be closed.

We got there, his doors were wide open and he was busy. I thought maybe when it is my turn he’d say my hair is too strong and he cannot deal. ‘Welcome welcome, oyibo, sit down here’. He wrapped the large white cloth over my shoulders and secured it at the back of my neck. I bent my head. I felt so small. I saw him grab his scissors just as my mother was telling him I was going to boarding school. I felt him tug my hair, then the rest of her speech was drowned out when he turned on the clipper. I heard the loud buzz, I hated the sound. My mind began to spin – I could still get out of this. When he pulled my ear slightly out of the way so he could cut, I jumped (on purpose). You see I wanted him to cut me so I would bleed and my mother would rush me off to the hospital. She would be so torn about the incident, would apologize to me and never think of cutting my hair ever again. I guess the barber was prepared. I don’t think he read my mind he probably was just experienced. He merely said, ‘Don’t worry oyibo, it will not pain you, you hear, I will do your hair well well’. Like I needed to hear that. Sigh.

This was really happening. Somehow I didn’t cry. I couldn’t cry. I remember seeing my hair falling on the floor, all around me. The first time he chopped it off with his scissors – large clumps of hair, and then later smaller clumps when he used the clippers. I couldn’t bear to look at the mirror.  My hair had finally grown and it was being taken away. Just like that. I thought – Please keep a little of my dignity don’t scrape it gorimapa.

It happened pretty quickly. (You know thinking back maybe I didn’t even have as much hair as I thought). I don’t remember the drive back. We got home and my mother told me to take a bath so the hair that may have gotten on my skin doesn’t itch me. I finally looked at in the mirror. Hey, it really wasn’t so bad but I wasn’t going to admit that to myself nor anyone. My hair was in a dustbin somewhere and it hurt my little heart.

That was over 20 years ago, this hair incident. I have come to realize it’s just hair, nothing more than that. I have cut my hair since then – at the hair salon, at home myself with a pair of scissors, my husband has helped too, I have dyed it purple, retouched it, weaved it, curled it, texturised it. Now I am almost always on braids. I have accepted I can’t have it all.

I bought hair ribbons when I was shopping for baby stuff. When the nurses handed my daughter to me, I looked at her … she was bald!!! Adorable… but bald. Gosh! Of all my features to inherit, she had to take my hair *sobs*.

My hair still grows very slowly but like most things with me, they thrive once I quit obsessing about them. And like India Arie aptly put it ‘I am not my hair’.

A day after I wrote this story, I asked my husband to help me trim my braids so it is easier for me to loosen. He chopped off a lot of my hair in error. I know he didn’t mean to but my hair was in patches, different lengths, it looked like ‘rat chopped hair’. I was so sad.

Maybe I am my hair after all…

Kech

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