Eating Peas on Cloud 9

A little over a year ago, I made the life-altering decision to “go natural.” For those unfamiliar with the term in this sense, it does not mean I now forgo the waxing and shaving of my pits, legs and brows. Nor does it mean that everything I eat or wear is holistic and organic. It means I’m giving my hair a permanent break from harsh chemicals and heat-styling methods.

I began the transition from relaxed to natural as part of my journey to self-discovery. This is not to say that I couldn’t possibly have learned anything about myself while sporting chemically relaxed hair, but I figured at least knowing the true texture of my hair could only enhance the personal growth and learning experience.

The transition has been a long and hard one. I chose to take the slow and difficult route of grow-cut-grow because I couldn’t bare the thought of hacking all of my shoulder-length hair off at once. Besides, the colossal size of my head just is not conducive to a cute brush cut or teeny weeny ’fro, anyway. But that hasn’t been the hardest part. The flak from some family members and friends has been quite difficult to deal with. 

My older sister thinks I stopped getting relaxers because I’m depressed, and letting my hair go is just the first step of letting myself go altogether. My younger sister has asked to style my hair a million times or more, just to put her out of the misery of having to look at my “nappiness.” My mother even offered to pay for me to visit a salon every week. (Insert sad emoticon here).

I often find myself defending my actions, when really my only response should be “Yo, it’s my hair, get over it.” And … wait … IT’S THE HAIR I WAS BORN WITH! 

I guess I can’t fault black people who look at me cross-eyed. Straight hair (however unnatural) is all many of us know. From grade school — or as soon as Mama thinks we’re old enough — she rakes through our hair with the hot comb, sends us to the salon for a relaxer, or fetches a box of lye at the drug store to apply the creamy, white straightener to our hair herself. This sends the subliminal message that the hair the good Lord gave us little black children is something to be ashamed of; it’s unruly and unacceptable, and it must be harshly tamed. Can’t blame Mama either, though, because that’s the same unconscious message passed down from her mom, and her mom before that. So for centuries, black women (myself once included) have been beating down the doors of drug stores and salons every four to six weeks, like clockwork, because God forbid those little hairs (affectionately known as “peas”) at the nape of the neck (more affectionately known as the “kitchen”) start to curl … er … “bead” … up.

Then we get so caught up that anything other than silky weaves, chemical-straightening, coloring, etc., becomes unacceptable. Sometimes, I think some of us have forgotten that our hair really does grow upward and outward in a cloud of tight coils, rather than straight down in flowing, manufactured coifs.

Don’t get me wrong, if you want to wear your hair straight, that’s your prerogative. You could even dye it blue, for all I care. I’m not trying to convert anyone or start a natural movement. But the fact that I’m ridiculed, questioned or given dirty looks for striving to be myself (inside and out) is quite unsettling.

Yes, my hair is poofy, unruly, kinky, nappy, or whatever other adjective. Yes, it may take a little bit more work to style and maintain, but it’s now healthy, it’s beautiful and it’s the hair God gave me. 

Since going natural, I feel more creative and expressive and much more in touch with Saria. I feel like now I can truly say I’m happy with myself — just the way I am — and I give nothing less than the real me to everyone I encounter. 

And most importantly, I no longer have to worry about hiding all the little peas in my kitchen.

— Peace and blessings, 

S. Monette