Interwoven

Interwoven

Memoires of the Big Chop

This is me; every curl and every coil –

every shrunken end – is me.

I was parted from it.

I was young; those curls and coils were relaxed.

All I could think for years

and years, was –

‘Why did they think it was stressed?’

 

I was 30 years old before I knew the texture of me.

I sat in that chair, in a place where I thought I was safe –

and as the hairdresser started cutting,

the comments began:

‘You don’t want to look butch.’

‘How will you get a man?’

‘What if you don’t have “good hair”?’

 

This is me; every curl and every coil –

every shrunken end - is me.

Can you grasp

how it feels to be pressed, relaxed – ashamed?

I am not untamed;

what a lazy word for something we do not understand –

cannot (will not) comprehend.

 

‘It’s just hair’ they say,

It’s not, It’s part of my identity.

It’s close to me. 

And that’s not just from me, it’s from you, from many.

Because I’m always on this platform.

A product for the appraisal of others.

Today, I step down.

 

This is me - standing in all my glory.

Every curl and every coil; every shrunken end.

They make me free.

I stand unphased,

uncaged.

You don’t get to hold me,

I’m free.

 

From Platform to Plinth

You tug - You pull on my hair.

‘Can I touch it?’,

you say – as if ‘it’ isn’t mine.

As if I am an ‘exotic’ display piece.

You see me as an object,

you see me as a product,

and these locs are museum pieces

to be explored and experienced.

You see my curves, my lips, my fullness

and think they were crafted for you –

for your purpose, your pleasure.

I follow the curves of my own body,

waves of my lips, the fullness of me –

crafted for my purpose – pleasure,

to support my journey.

 

My identity is twice removed.

Not of my culture and my name is not my own.

It’s given to ensure the world knows who I belong to.

Even free,

this world desires me to be owned by another.

‘Why are you still single?’

Because I choose to be.

Not out of pain or trauma

but because my value does not require validation.

You believe that a woman should aspire to marriage.

Because a woman alone is a dangerous being –

to be tamed, relaxed.

 

But wait, because I will take space.

You put me on your platform,

I’ve decided to replace you on this plinth.

A living statue, to be admired,

not for my appearance but

for my vast and valuable contributions.

I take spaces populated by those unlike me.

I take space.

They are not given, because they weren’t made for me.

Elevated, on this plinth – I stand

for my purpose and my pleasure.

 

 

Loc Ladies

I have vivid visions of soft-skinned women.

Brown-skinned women

with interwoven hair falling in waves along their backs;

the thick scent of castor oil humming through the air.

These women are my family.

Innumerable aunts.

 

We share eyes like soil and flowing hips.

We share full breasts, dimpled cheeks,

And loud laughs.

Our hands make – they mould and uphold

the culture, together, we create.

These women are my family.

Innumerable aunts.

 

They are who I see when I look at me now.

Interwoven, interlocking, interweaving in love.

They showed me how to fall in love with my hair –

every inch along my back.

Our journey, together –

Brown-skinned women

with interwoven hair falling in waves along our backs;

the thick scent of castor oil humming the melody of our stories.

These women - are my family.

 

 

 

Every Inch

Every inch along my back shares the history of where I’ve come from.

It shares my journey - my story;

Every year I’ve chosen me.

Every inch along my back is known so intimately -

intermingled, interwoven carefully.

 

I held onto those straight stands ever so tightly.

They were my hiding place – my safety.

I held onto those straight strands because behind them I could blend in – hide

inside the woman I was told to be.

Who is she?

She isn’t me.

I was primed for change.

A journey of self-discovery, a spiritual, sacred time

of new growth.

 

Every inch along my back is known by me – personally.

These girls have names you know –

this one’s called Shorty.

Sometimes I watch over months

as two locs meet, and fall in love.

Sometimes, no matter how hard I try to keep them apart,

they marry anyway.

They love each other you see.

 

Every inch along my back flows freely,

Like the waves of the sea.

They display, for all to see,

the history of me.

 

Church of Hair

This is my ritual.

I do my girls hair, all seven of their heads, every week.

We sit in a circle with Star Trek on low and then we begin.

Each bottle is spun open –

the scents of oils appear in a thick cloud hovering hair;

coconut, jojoba, olive, castor and tea tree.

These scents mix and mingle into a vapor we breathe deeply.

We clear damp hair, with wide tooth combs

laced with detangling creams to silence the screams.

When the plaiting and braiding begins,

we curl and twist our bodies into shapes that aid in the process

of creating art on the scalps of young girls.

Sections get parted,

edges get smoothed,

and in every appearance of skin – thin fingers rub oils deeply in.

When her hair’s done,

the subtle hum of the TV screen falls away

like the ever-present rolling of waves after a long day.

Her head gets wrapped in silk – then,

on to the next young one.

Each daughter with their own colour and texture

to navigate and negotiate.

It’s all good to me.

 

This is my creative outlet – doin’ hair.

It’s what I love.

For the girls with locs we do our ritual every few months.

We shampoo the hair,

condition with rose water or aloe-vera gel,

then gently,

delicately,

we twist each loc.

Each girl gets her chance to twirl -

between two fingers, dancing, spiraling in unity.

Another head wrapped with silk,

then, onto the next young one.

This is my ritual.

Welcome, to the Church of Hair.