Fear & Protection
I’m so extra that I couldn’t just put on a wig and go, it had to be a whole existential crisis.
I’ve decided I’m going to wear my Afro less.
I feel the need to address this because my Afro has been a core part of my identity for the entirety of my adult life. It was always a statement to the world, sometimes to me as well but honestly mostly, it was just what grew from my scalp.
I started feeling this urge to protect my crown sometime last year. When this thought came to me midday under a burning shower stream, I knew that it meant I would exit the steam in a new chapter. Learning my hair and exploring my relationship with it has correlated with uncovering myself.
On the surface, I know some of this is just being tired. Wearing my natural hair invites so much attention, especially with how long or rather, how big my hair has gotten. The compliments people share are mostly positive but my brain gets bleary attempting to compute the emotion behind every stare. It’s burdensome to constantly provoke attention just by being myself.
“Is it real?” “I <3 it” “I wish my could do that.” — It’s all too boring to even repeat at this point but here’s a recent one. Today I walked out the nail shop and an old Korean man gestured on top of his head while gasping. I’m guessing this was to remark at my afro puff. However he shared no words after this so whether he was loving it, or hating it, or surprised by it, that I’m left to determine.
I am so tired of being a container for guilt, a container for intimidation, a container for mommy issues, and a container for everyone else’s self-esteem. Tempering everyone else’s expectations is exhausting, I just want to be. I need everybody out of my scalp so I can breathe. If I have to put a wig on to make it happen, then fine.
I held off following this urge for awhile. I journal-ed through this many times before clicking check-out on TikTok shop this Spring. I had to ask myself “is this all out of fear?” My psychiatrist recommended I interrogate what scares me when I told her my fear is in the driver seat more often than I’d like. I speak because I’m afraid what might happen if I don’t. I am quiet because I am scared of how they might respond. In my journal I asked myself, “Am I afraid of my coils?”
After much cleansing, no I’m not afraid. I’m finally at a place of peace with my hair. What bothered me the most before going natural was the outsized space in my mind that my hair absorbed. Whether it be questioning if it looked “presentable”, planning when I could get it done, debating which activities I could take part in depending on how far away wash day was. Any drop of moisture, a dewy morning, a errant sprinkler spray, a splash too much when washing my face and I’d be goosey.
Nowadays, I hardly think of my hair at all, unless of course someone is begging me to. I’ve worn my hair mostly natural for more than ten years now. The journey towards acceptance is colorless to share because the mechanisms are quite dull. I just left my hair alone as much as possible. I felt ugly and was treated that way for many years. But overtime I just stopped caring to be valued for painting myself into palpable beauty and built confidence in other ways.
I don’t fear my hair anymore, I know what to expect with it, finally. I feel no anxiety about jumping into a pool or walking along a a misty beach. I am so much at peace with my coils that accepting compliments without my fro feels like sedition.
I fear I’ve stuck to my statements so firmly that I haven’t had any time to see if others could fit in my hands. I named myself at 19 and still abide by many of those rules though I can count on one hand how much has stayed the same. Some I’ve held so tight they’ve distorted and melted, got sticky in my desperate grasp. I look down again & hardly recognize these ideas at all. They’re hanging off the side and to put it all back together I’ve scattered my wills around the floor so I can inspect them.
With everything on the floor and my hands free I can reshape my beliefs to fit me at almost 30. I don’t need to wear my hair out to prove my allegiance to liberation. That comes out in my words and actions. Beauty rituals are not purely oppression and signaling my ability to work for femininity, they can be a vehicle of self-expression, self-care, and magic. I am not to be only adored for my beauty, but if I am, there’s no harm in that, as I’ve built frameworks of my worth in other spheres.
Anyways if you see me around, you might not see me, and that was the goal.
