My Other Kinky Hair

From all of my childhood memories, the state of my hair is the one I would love to forget.  If I could take a pill and simply erase from my mind all the suffering I went through because of it, I would.

I don’t blame my Black father or my Italian mother for falling in love with each other and having me, but couldn’t they have done something better than just wash my hair with plain soap?

As I entered adolescence it got worse.  I was skinny and tall and with an abundance of hair, which translated into a well-deserve nickname, Reny Broom.  My friends, (How could I call them friends?) use to say that if they turned me upside down they could easily sweep the floor or wash the toilet.  It was atrocious.

I have always dreamed of straight hair but what I had on top of my head was this tangled brillo pad, and I found myself envying anyone with long or short, shinny and… straight hair.

I hated the commercials with longhaired women running in slow motion while their hair bounced up and down with the wind. I tried doing that by setting our huge fan on high and standing in front of it, but good quality kinky hair is hurricane proof – it won’t move.

When I was old enough to care for my hair myself I begun a regimen of aggressive chemicals. Looking back I am surprised I only burned my scalp a few times, and didn’t end up bald.

“Thank God I didn’t meet you back then,” said my husband few years ago when he saw a picture of me with the “broom” on my head.

A half of a century later and with menopause knocking on my door and hormones messing with my body, my hair is again taking the brunt of the suffering. Still, this time, older and wiser, I am not complaining.

I have decided to stop fighting back, accept nature, and enjoy my happy nappy, glorious kinky hair.

Cheers,

Reny

Let there always be laughter.  And absolutely, no hair.

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