Written By: KD Reid

“Mommy, I want a blonde braid, so I can be pretty” my daughter said. “You want a what?” I said with a slight cringe in my voice. “A braid like Elsa” she replied. This statement took me off guard and immediately led to me having a conversation with my then 5 year old. I didn’t understand that what the counselor in me saw as a lack of self-love in my child was actually a reflection of the lack of self-love I had for myself.

Moving to Atlanta, Georgia had always been a goal for me. Something about it seemed so big, kind of like the southern New York City, but little did I know that the city I longed to be a part of, came with pressure that I didn’t expect. At brunch, church, work, even WalMart, there was nowhere you could go without seeing women dressed up. Down south, we call it dressed to the nines. Everyone’s hair was long and flawless and I wanted it. I don’t remember seeing more than a handful of women with natural hair during my time there, and my hair definitely wasn’t natural. Creamy crack was on the schedule quarterly prior to us relocating, but being in a new city I didn’t know where to go nor did I trust anyone to do it. You know you can’t just let everyone near your head with chemicals. Finding a shop to install a sew in was easy, it was like going to Louisiana and looking for a Popeyes. There was literally one on every corner! 

I remember my first time.  Whew, you couldn’t tell me anything. I think I gave myself whiplash, and my pocket too. I loved the weave, the way it smelled, the way my wand curls bounced, the way I was complimented and even the way my husband looked at me with it. It was worth every penny. I remember the times I had to take it down and wash my hair before getting it reinstalled. I realized I didn’t like my hair. My afro was so small. “Natural hair is not for me,” I would shout in frustration from the bathroom as I attempted to flat iron it until my next appointment. 

Looking back now, my five-year old daughter didn’t see me take as many pictures as I did with my weave, I didn’t dress up like I did when I had my hair done, I didn’t exude the same confidence. If I didn’t love my hair, how could I expect her to love her hair? Despite everything mommy told her about how beautiful her hair was, how pretty she looked with her thick ponytails adorned with beads and barrettes matching her clothes, none of it mattered. None of it mattered because her hair was thick and full, curly and strong, just like the hair mommy shouted wasn’t for her from the bathroom. None of it mattered because on special days at school like graduation, pictures, parties, etc., I brought her with me to the shop where she not only witnessed the glow  that women get when the cape is taken off and their shiny, freshly done hair falls past their neck, but also when she her hair was pressed and flat ironed, clipped and curled everyone complimented her, took her picture and swooned over her. Pair all of this subconscious conditioning with the number one movie at that time (Frozen), and my daughter wanting a long blonde braid, so she could be “beautiful” shouldn’t have been a surprise to me but it was.

Back to the conversation that day in the car. “Baby, you don’t need a braid like Elsa. Your hair is beautiful just the way it is. Mommy loves your hair.” Surely that will deter the conversation. I mean, who doesn’t like to be affirmed. “Why don’t you like your hair?” she replied. Talk about a ton of bricks. I was not ready for that response. “Well, I do like my hair, I mean, um…. This isn’t about me baby.” Because that’s our go to right? When things get uncomfortable, to real or if we don’t have an answer we revert to the authority card. I can’t say that conversation was the end of me getting sew ins because honey I love a good sew in but it was the beginning of a journey of self-love I didn’t know I needed. Shortly after this conversation, life happened and I wasn’t able to continue my hair appointments, so I was left with my hair and my mirror. I realized how uncomfortable and self-conscious I was as it related to my natural hair. As I sit here writing this I’m wondering if it was because of what saw from my mom, what I picked up from society or just my own definition of beauty. I’m not sure now and I wasn’t sure then, but what I was sure of was that my daughter wasn’t going to feel the need to have a blonde braid to be beautiful. She could “let it go, let it go.” See what I did there.

It wasn’t until my daughter was 7 that I started my natural hair journey. I wore protective styles and I wore my natural curls. I’m not going to lie and say it was always comfortable and glorious because it wasn’t, but I was very intentional about what I said about my hair and the hair of women around us in the presence of my daughter. There were styles I would get, or days I would wear a headband, and she would voice her disapproval. My only response would be “I love it and that is all that matters. I love my beautiful natural hair.” I began to show her pictures of women with various types of natural hair. I explained to her that she didn’t have hair like her white or Hispanic counterparts, but she had special hair. Hair that could be braided, curled, colored, straightened, loc’d and much more. I began to allow her to experiment with styles and colors. She would tell me instances where people at her school would say something, and she would proudly tell me how she told them she liked it and that’s all that matters. We talked about the proper treatment of her hair and how her hair is different from her sister’s (yep somewhere in this story I had another daughter) but they are both beautiful. When I made the decision to loc my hair my daughter didn’t like it. “It’s so short and what if it gets boring?” she said. 

“Boring? This hairstyle is anything but boring and it is short because this hairstyle is a process” I replied. Five months later, she loves my hair. Almost 6 years since our conversation in the car, and she loves her hair. She loves the diversity, she loves the strength, the beauty and if there are certain styles she isn’t yet comfortable with we discuss how she feels and I encourage her to keep working on it because one day she may. Now I understand that what the counselor in me sees as a young princess who loves her hair, and understands the beauty of the choices she has with it is actually a reflection of the increase in self-love I have for myself.

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