I decided to grow my hair for my birthday last year.
There is no symbolism in that at all and as much as I want to, I’m not going to mislead you this time.
I focused on how much I lost and I figured it was time for recovery.
They don’t tell you that the same discipline to rebuild feels like similar to just cutting it all.
But off I went,
running to my mother:
“Mommy I want for nothing but this gift you gave me at birth.
Im sorry I’ve let strangers play in my hair.
I’m sorry I let the stress take the importance away.
I’m sorry I settled in looking my worst, when you’ve instilled your best in me.”
Her face softened by my sincerity,
Her eyes widened like I’ve kept cornrows in for a decade and I’ve finally asked for her to comb it all loose.
8 months later and I see her hands shake when she reaches to detangle my hair.
Gently I place my hand on hers.
“I’ve got it, Mom. You can trust me. I will wash every first Sunday. I won’t be out long enough for the sun to damage anymore.
Please allow me to show off this gift that I got from you.”
Everyday I look at the photos.
I stare at myself as I do in the mirror.
How could I be free with so much missing?
I hope my children don’t feel this free…because it’s uncomfortable.
It’s too fake to pass as truth.
But day after day,
I fill in the gaps
I find myself again
I love my hair.