Maggie and I were sisters, two black peas in a pod —
but we weren’t the same peas.
She had her thick 4b-c coils that could be stretched down to the bottom of her chin, in length.
I had my big 3c-4a curls that could be stretched down to my mid-bicep, in length.
I liked to get my hair blown out and flat ironed because when it was straight,
you can tell it’s longer
than other black girl’s hair.
You can also tell its softer
than other black girl’s hair because I didn’t need a perm —
like Maggie would.
One time, Maggie and I were walking to school together and
her hair was in its usual tight, small, low bun.
My hair was in an unusual, for me, pineapple ponytail of poofy curls.
I wanted to try something different,
I wanted to say no to the extreme heat of flat irons and blow outs,
so I wet my hair before tying it up into this
pineapple ponytail of poofy curls.
I felt powerful for embracing my curls, I felt like I was breaking
beauty standards by wetting my hair and following the flow of
my pineapple ponytail of poofy curls.
I felt like an immovable black queen, letting her hair be whatever it wanted to be that day.
But,
the wetness triggered shrinkage, which means however long my hair is when dry,
when wet, it will shrink up and my curls will tighten.
Well this time, my curls definitely tightened, and my hair was shorter, curlier and kinkier
than it’s ever been.
My curls tightened so much so that it looked like a
perfectly sheared bush of hair shaped into a perfect sphere.
My hair was this black, beautiful, thick, full
pineapple ponytail of poofy curls
and kinks.
In my head, my hair was beautiful then — and it was —
but a part of me did think it was beautiful because even though I embraced my curls and kinks,
it still wasn’t like Maggie’s coils,
so I was in the clear.
Because we weren’t the same peas —
We weren't the same type of black girls, with the same type of black hair.
The difference matters, at least that’s what we’re taught.
In my head, I was confident about my beauty until
Maggie blurted “Ha! Now your hair looks like mine!”
My hair looks like hers?
Well, I guess her hair is fine.
Fine for a black girl who can’t really do anything with hair so short
and too kinky.
Fine for a black girl if she at least puts a little more hair over it to make it look bigger and better
Better for who? Better for all the eyes that judge her on the daily.
The eyes that say if her hair looks like that in an interview, there’s a slight chance she’ll be taken seriously.
But she’s better off blow drying it, then straightening it, then straightening it some more.
The more heat the better, even if it burns so much that it leaves scars in your black pride.
Black girls are told to keep their hair contained and controlled.
If it’s in its natural state then it’s wild and you’re not carrying yourself well
This standard burns away the healthiness of black curls
by slowly but surely tuning beautiful S shaped curls, shaped kinks and spiraled coils —
full and thick and glorious—
into shriveled dry pieces of worn out and stretched vertical lines with a single dent in the middle of each strand.
How bland,
Do we have to get for you, your eyes, so you can feel better about your beauty?
Because our beauty is abundantly magical.
My pineapple ponytail of curls, with its coils, gives my fit for the day, flavor —
that sort of black pepper kick you can only get from a black treasure.
I’m learning to love my hair, my sister’s hair, my brother’s hair, with all of our black glory.
Because by loving these black hairs, I love these black identities, including every single strand of my own, especially the coily ones society says is ugly.
Because it’s not.
My hair is majestic; it’s my inheritance.
If I shame any of our hair, then I’m shaming my black identity.
I would be shaming
all those who came before us that had all different kinds of black hair textures and
that deserve nothing short of respect and admiration
for their sacrifices they made, so that we, today,
can love our black identities
freely without the pressure to give into painful headaches of constant tight low buns,
freely without the “Oh wow did you cut your hair?” because no, I didn’t,
it’s called shrinkage and it’s beautiful
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