My journey and how my hair contributed to it.
Hot Comb
The Method
The hot metal steamed as my mom lifted it from the stove. She parted my hair, starting from the scalp, and ended up with a strand no thicker than the width of candy licorice. She then tilted my head almost aggressively.
“Stop moving,” she mumbled whenever I flinched.
The heat straightened the mangled black hair with a smooth finish and the smell of Blue Magic[1] melting between the angry hot spikes. It wasn’t straight to my mom until the hot comb brushed against my scalp, the heat slightly pressing into my head and making me squint as if my scalp would squint with me.
Hot Combs Don’t Belong Here
My sisters and I used to hide the hot combs in the corners we knew mom wouldn’t look. And my mom would get another, despite knowing all too well the stove smell, paired with the hot comb metal, would make us shrink away. She herself wasn’t enthusiastic about the task, knowing she would have to fight for us to keep still. And there would come a time where technology would turn in her favor: the new electric hot comb, displayed in shining plastic and attached to a long black cord coiled up.
Perm
You could say perm saved my mom the trouble. At thirteen, I decided I couldn’t deal with the thick, brown-black Nigerian jungle my mom gave me. I begged my mom to get a perm—I saw how much easier it was to manage. It was always soft and straight like those women on television. My mom relented and took me to the salon. It took almost forty minutes to get to the salon and she kept telling me about how my hair could fall out if I didn’t take care of it and how I may regret my decision later. Those warnings and pieces of advice went unheard; my mom was talking to a notebook filled with too many thoughts to allow space for others.
When the perm treatment was finished, the sharp smell of chemical dulled by professional shampoo, my hairdresser stood away, hands on broad hips.
“It’s saft like a white gehl na,” she stated plainly, her words laced with Ghana. She shook her head and smirked when I rewarded her with a gap-toothed grin, my head slowly raising from the black sink filled with cloud-colored foam. My newly transformed hair dangled like wet rags.
My sisters were quick to follow after me. Unfortunately, the product build up and alarmingly huge chunks of hair falling into the sink and trashcan introduced a new fight for my mom. To maintain ‘the perfect hair,’ we had to put in an effort that was almost futile—Comb too much, lose hair. Comb too little, lose hair. Comb too hard, lose hair. Comb too soft, lose hair. It took us years to finally figure out what to do, but by that time, regret was wrapped around every strand of my damaged hair.
Finding Natural Again
I used to be ashamed of how thick my hair was, how it would shrink in the water like shriveled hands as my mom washed it, and how I couldn’t just comb through it because it needed to be forced straight with heat. But my hair was as thick as my ancestor’s will, those shriveled hands were just digging up dirt to grow new flowers in clean soil, and my hair stood in place, where two cultures met at the ends. I forced my hair to submit to some norm, believing it to be just a little closer to a ‘pretty’ I didn’t believe I possessed. Yes, I had oceans of soft hair, but I didn’t find what I was looking for: self-acceptance. Permed hair began to become one of my insecurities, forcing me to transition between shiny hair brushing my back and dried, brittle hair hardly making it passed my ears. I decided that I wanted to do right this time.
My hair was ready to be natural again and I knew it would thank me as soon as I announced to my mom I was no longer perming my hair. She gave me a skeptical look, but supported my decision with a simple nod and half-smile.
The Method
I didn’t want to cut all the permed hair off immediately, knowing the appearance of it would only reverse the perception I had established myself. So I grew it out for a year, keeping it braided so I wouldn’t break off the new growth, and then cut off the parts that screamed to be let go; the straightened parts I thought would wrap my insecurities like thin, interconnected wires and suffocate them until they deflated and I felt beautiful. Those strands were too frail to do so.
Now, I sit here with my natural hair stretching their curled fibers in all directions, rejoicing in its rebirth. I needed this change. I cut out the damaged pieces of me and revealed something new, something stronger. And as I continue to tend to my newer, healthier hair, I know it will be difficult. To my relief, this process includes avoiding the hot comb.
Isioma West 