#curltexture

I used to be so ashamed of my hair. I didn’t think my curls matched my skin complexion and tone, I carried the weight of the stares from those who expected something different, something more acceptable like the color of my skin. I didn’t think my curl texture was loose enough, she placed a shadow over my face and shoulders that darkened every part of me that yearned to touch the light. I used to get so frustrated that there weren’t any products my white father would want to afford with the disappearance of my black mother who was supposed to nourish the hunger that laid on my scalp. I felt the heavy sadness of being misunderstood by the one person you trusted the most. I learned the lesson of duality the hard way, she forced me to listen when she said “damaged and healthy cannot coexist” forcing me to cut off what I thought were hard earned locs. I used to get upset that she required more time, that she needed more care, DEMANDED more love. I would cry in disgust as I watched the unearthly shape she took as she grew from my roots, the awkwardness it held and how sometimes it never really grew at all. I would curse my mixed races for getting the lightest complexion of the bunch but with the hair at a base of 4b, hating my blackness because I wasn’t all or nothing. 

I hated her, I hid her, and shaped her, and bleached her and cut her and permed her and burned her and broke her and striped her and pulled her and cursed her and matted her and neglected her and stabbed her and I can’t believe I hurt her so bad and yet she still loves me so much. 

I hated everything that made her mine, I hated everything that made her unique to me. That now, I have learned to be so appreciative of, that my crown, she is mine and is like no other. 

All this, because of the expectations of hair.