Blue Magic
Seeing my pressed hair in the bathroom mirror made me forget how badly my ears hurt from being singed by the hot comb.
At 11, I became Aaliyah and Beyoncé and Ashanti and Ciara combined as I shook my straight hair from side to side.
My friends sang their praises of good hair during recess and ran their fingers through my mane from roots to ends in one swoop.
I began to anticipate the singe of the hot comb with so much excitement I could barely sit still.
But, every few days, without fail, I woke up to an army of curly hairs that seemed to have sprouted from my roots overnight.
I could hear their battle cries as my roots were re-straightened:
“This is our home! This is our home!”
25, and I smile at the halo of coils framing my face in the mirror. My hair moves closer and closer to God each day.
But — the response from others is much, much different now.
They stare from a distance, squint, and turn their head to the side like I’m a painting in an art museum they’re trying to decide whether it’s beautiful or not.
If I can survive chemical burns from relaxers and bruises from hair bobbles and singes from hot combs, I can survive the glare of a middle-aged woman while standing in a line at CVS.
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Nia Simone McLeod is a writer, content creator, and pop culture enthusiast from Richmond, Virginia. Follow her on Twitter, Tumblr, or Instagram for more dope digital content.