Big Chop

It’s just hair, I repeated to myself.

Still, I swallowed hard, fearfully watching in the bathroom mirror as my roommate hit the switch on the electric trimmer.

“Wait, turn it off,” I said yet again. It wasn’t just hair.

Ash did as I asked. “We don’t have to do this, you know,” she reminded me gently despite the smirk playing on her lips.

“Just give me a minute.” I ran my hands through my perpetual split ends several more times, trying to picture what I’d look like practically bald as my fingers got caught in the kinky curls that had started to emerge from my scalp. Normally this was the week that I’d go see my hairdresser and shell out $120 that I didn’t actually have, simply for her to destroy the bonds in my new hair growth with skin- burning chemicals to make it unnaturally and indefinitely straight, weakening it in the process. I was actually past due since it had been almost 12 weeks since last time. I had been trying to get as much new growth in as possible before chopping the length off and my hair was starting to look awful. It was time.

I could see that Ash was holding back a laugh. She thought I was being dramatic. Perhaps I was. It was just hair. But I’d been getting my hair relaxed since I was around eight years old—a small piece of information that horrified any Black hairstylist I told this to. I hardly knew life without relaxer. Ash had shaved her own head a few months back and now had the beginnings of the cutest, waviest red mullet I’d ever seen. My natural hair wouldn’t do anything like that though. I don’t know if she understood that. Hell, I don’t know if I fully understood that. I wanted so bad for it to be cute and fashionable. Ash had been my inspiration to go through with finally chopping off my hair, which was something I’d been thinking about doing since my fascination with traditional Black hairstyles took hold earlier this year. The box braids, the wash-and-go’s, the head wraps and the locs...I wanted to try all of them.

I honestly loved this recent movement of Black women loudly celebrating their natural hair. I had seen so many stories on YouTube of various hair journeys, embarked upon by Black girls just like myself who were nervous about making the switch to natural. Just watching them go through with it made me feel powerful. It seemed so easy for them. They were all blessed with beautiful curl patterns, not to mention the dedication to taking proper care of their hair. I was envious of their fearlessness. I wanted to be as proud of my natural beauty, my culture, and my heritage as those girls were.

During my fall down the YouTube natural hair rabbit hole, I’d seen plenty of girls who had chosen to let their hair grow out without cutting off the relaxed portion. It seemed like a viable option, but those girls tended to express how much harder it was to care for and style two wildly different textures of hair. Although I would have preferred my hair to be long and luxurious, I didn’t think I’d have the best experience dealing with that, so I decided to go the route of “the big chop” instead. God, why did they have to give it such a scary name? It didn’t make the hesitations easy to discard.

I vividly remembered my four-year-old self sobbing as my mom worked a wide-tooth comb through my kinky hair. Although I know she tried her best to be gentle, each tug bore a new shriek and more tears. My hair and the concept of gentle did not go together. Would it hurt that much to comb it now?

I hadn’t even told my mom I was doing this. I wondered what she’d say. She’d grown up during a time when discrimination against African American hairstyles in the workplace was common. She’d once told me that one reprimand from her first boss was all she needed to conform and relax her hair for good, caring much more about her career than her natural locks. I don’t blame her one bit. She wanted to make her life easier.

It was never my mom’s decision to straighten my hair; it was a decision that she let me make on my own. I had always wanted to have a head of long, straight hair. All of the Disney princesses had straight hair. All of the girls in my favorite TV shows and books had straight hair. All of the girls at school had straight hair. It always looked so pretty and shiny and fun to play with. Besides, they probably didn’t hate combing and brushing nearly as much as I did. Straight hair had been the dream for me. You can imagine how pleased I was when I got my wish.

I knew that hair discrimination still ran rampant in our country. I had been spared from such discrimination due to having mine straightened. I had been too young to understand that I was conforming, just like my mom. I was conforming to White beauty standards without even knowing what it meant to do so. Well, no longer. I would look anyone in the eyes and dare them to challenge my hair choices, my culture. I knew that in my adulthood and in the country’s current climate, I’d be able to handle any adversity that might come with the territory.

“Look, I’ll use the biggest guard so it’ll preserve as much new growth as possible,” Ash said, switching out the trimmer guard.

“Cool,” I said, drawing in a deep breath, clasping my hands and readying myself as she turned on the trimmer once more.

After all, it was just hair.