Nakeisha Campbell
Advanced Essay Writing
Hair Troubles
As I pulled and tugged at the thick mass of dark hair on my head, my comb snapped in
two. I lowered my arm in defeat and watched the stem of what remained of my new purple
comb. I had only gotten it the day before.
“Mom!” I yelled, “The comb broke again!”
“Which one?”
“The purple one you got yesterday.”
I could hear my mother’s sigh, even from two rooms away. “Take the Vaseline and come
here,” she yelled back.
I grabbed the greasy yellow container from my chest of drawers and trudged to my
mother’s room. As I stepped inside I could smell the starch from all her ironing, and I could hear
Hymns playing in the background. She looked up and saw the state of my coarse, disheveled hair
with half a comb stuck in the kinky strands.
She switched off the iron and placed it on the ironing board, billows of steam rising from
the flat metal surface. “Take the comb out of your hair.”
I pulled the comb out obediently and waited. “Give me a second,” my mother said as she
hung up her ironed clothes in the closet. I nodded and climbed onto her king-sized bed. I sat with
my legs folded and caught a glimpse of my reflection in the huge vertical mirror that was
attached to my mother’s chest of drawers. I looked up and stared at the little girl sitting in the
bed. She sat slouched with a mass of untamable, thick, messy black hair on her head. Two pieces
of a broken comb protruded from either side of her small dark hand, while the other hand
encased the greasy container of Vaseline.
I hated what I saw.
I desperately wanted my hair to be straight and smooth. I wanted to be able to run my
fingers through the strands without feeling tangles and knots. I wanted to let my hair out in
public without looking like Mufasa. I wanted the soft curls that gleamed in the sun, blew
gracefully with the wind and bounced playfully whenever I moved. I didn’t want this yucky,
brick-hard hair.
“Alright,” my mother said, grabbing a small red bench for me to sit on, “Come here, I’m ready.”
She sat on the bed directly in front of the same mirror, and positioned the bench between
her feet. She had another comb in hand, but this one was bigger. She also held a bottle of hairsoftener, but this gave me no relief. Over a thousand blobs of pink liquid did very little to
manage my unruly hair.
As soon as I sat on the bench, my mother squeezed the bottle of hair-softener into my
hair. My head jerked awkwardly in random directions as she lathered and rubbed the product into
my curly strands.
“Mom, I wish I was born with straight hair.”
At these words, my mother froze. It wasn’t the reaction I was expecting, but I sat there anxiously
and I waited. I could hear the soft harmonious voices of the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir on my
mother’s stereo. A handful of my hair was pulled upward in her still hand, damp with softener.
She spoke softly, “Do you know how many young girls are out there now, wishing that they had
hair like yours?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond, but I imagined that no girl in her right mind would want
hair that was untamable enough to break a comb. I simply shrugged.
“Listen, God gave you a head of healthy, beautiful thick hair. And you should be thankful for it,”
she said. “So many kids out there would be more than grateful for even half of the hair you’ve
got.”
“But mom… I can’t even comb it properly, it’s so tough and messy…”
Finally releasing my hair, I heard her pat the bed space next to her. “Come sit on the bed.”
I got up, climbed onto the bed once again and sat next to her. I felt a lump forming in my throat,
and my eyes began to water.
“Natural hair is nothing to be ashamed of,” my mother said as she looked at me. “Even if it’s
thick or hard to manage, it doesn’t make your hair any less beautiful.”
I swallowed and stared at my mother. I had to admit, this little speech made me feel a
whole lot better. Deep down, I always thought that my natural hair made me less pretty. In fact, I
was beginning to think that this was the real reason why I often had to get it straightened at the
salon. At this thought, I asked, “Then why do I always have to go to the salon to make it look
different?”
My mother sighed. “Managing your hair takes a lot of time, and since I’m so busy with
work, sometimes I don’t have a choice. I don’t do it to hurt you or because you have bad hair.
It’s just that I don’t have the time.”
Without a word, I looked from my mother to my reflection once again, trying to see the
beauty that she saw in my clunky mess of damp hair. I still couldn’t see it. But my mother’s
confidence in its beauty was enough to sustain me in that moment.
“Here, sit on the bench so I can braid it.”
I got down from the bed and returned to the bench. I winced and gritted my teeth and she
combed through the strands. I could feel the tooth of her comb glide along my scalp to separate
my hair, and I could feel the cool blobs of castor oil on her index finger as she applied it. I sat
there for about half an hour as she combed, parted, greased and braided.
“Look in the mirror and tell me what you think,” my mother said after the last braid. I got
up quickly, impatient to see what style she created. I sat on the bed and stared at my reflection
once more. My untidy afro was replaced with a head of fancy plaits that hung down to my
shoulders.
I swayed my head from side to side, watching how the braids moved, and I smirked despite
myself. “I really like it!”
My mom smiled. “I do, too. And I bet it wouldn’t look as nice if you had straight hair. Don’t you
agree?”
I looked from my reflection to my mom, and I smiled. “I couldn’t agree more.”