all good

I don’t recall what prevented me from seeing Good Hair when it was in movie theaters. I do know that as long as I can remember, changing my hair has been no big thing. When I get bored, crazed or really sad, an urge to splurge, submerge or purge comes over me. Shopping gets me into trouble, I no longer have a tub deep enough to get lost in until my mind clears and I confess, the latter more often than not has a direct correlation to break ups and deep misunderstandings involving the male species. Not only have I been known to wash a man right out of my hair but have also colored them into oblivion!

The first time I remember coloring my hair was when I was in high school. Back then and many times after, by my own doing and at the hands of professionals, the color of my tresses was all over the spectrum. I’ve never been afraid of color even when I looked in the mirror and should have been. But when I recently decided it was time for a new attitude, my only stipulation was the color had to resemble one that anybody’s baby could be born with. I will no longer wait until it grows out or try to tone down a shade that only a wee one born to an alien could come out with (no offense intended if you’re here from another planet). I used to think, it’s just hair it will grow back. Well that doesn’t always happen for everyone; mistakes are just not an option any more. So back to the movie…

People have always told me I have good hair, nonsense that makes my eyes roll as fast as the words roll off of whoever’s tongue. I don’t subscribe to the notion of good or bad hair. What I do believe in is uncooperative hair which is without a doubt what I have. For my entire life, my hair has had a mind of its own much like the woman it adorns. Perhaps because its roots are connected to the brain, it has its own think tank that tells it what to do, when, and what texture it should be. And speaking of texture, there are at least four that cover my skull -- wiry dry strands around the edges and the center crown, lush loose soft curly sides with tight fuzzy cotton-like curls on the top, who the hell knows where these bone straight very white gray ones come from and then there is the kitchen, that place just above the nape of the neck. Many a Black woman will tell you that this is the nappiest hair on their heads; mine has turned into silky locks, supple, smooth not a kink in the comb.

 

I think of my hair as a palette from which to create tinted tactile walk about art that can never be replicated exactly as it appeared the day before. It’s all good because I have it and because it is mine.

keep your peepers open!®