THROWBACK OF THE DAY: Rebirth, by Candice Horton

I felt as though my confidence was at its highest peak. I just did it. Without a second thought, a tinge of hesitation, an “I’ll sleep on it moment,” I did it. I went natural. As confident as I am today this has been an uphill battle and decision that seemed to have me “sleeping on it” for about 4 yrs now. I wanted to go natural a long time ago. My sister was the first in the family to blossom into her self. She was our guinea pig. I still remember my initial response, so scripted by society; it came out “Why did you do that?” Through a forced smile hiding behind selfish thoughts of how her decision would make me look when we were out together in public. Blooming like a flower, it took her a while to get used to the new woman in the mirror. I saw this new confidence I had never seen in her before. Like a child in a candy store, I wanted some. My mom was next. For her I think it was more of a convenience thing. My mom always found the easy way out when it came to managing her hair. Pull it back, pin it up, set it for a week, whatever she could do to forget about her processed tresses and make more time for the more concerning matters in life. As I watched my mother and sister embrace their kinky curls I grew jealous. Jealous of their bravery to step into such an opinionated world with their heads held high. Jealous of the short amount of time that it took for them to get ready and look like a million bucks. Jealous of the money they saved as I continued to dip into funds that I didn’t really have but would go into debt for, just to get my hair bone straight!

I attempted to go natural two times before going through with it. The first time was after I was in Ghana, Africa for a month. I didn’t touch my hair the entire time I was there. I had a short cut at the time and lived for a month with head wraps and scarves while I embraced my culture and its beauty. After returning I was dead set on going natural. It was my sophomore year at Indiana University and I was going to follow in my sister’s footsteps. I couldn’t do it. That Optimum box perm was speaking louder than my confidence at the time. The second attempt was my junior year of college. I convinced my sister to put micro braids in my hair because I was ready to go natural. She made me promise her I would go natural after hours, even days of braiding a million little braids throughout my thick head of hair. My promises were empty, as empty as the perm container as I sat in a salon, feeling the cool sensation of the no-lye chemical on my scalp. There was no feeling like it.

My perception of myself became less clouded when I graduated from Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana and moved to Brooklyn, New York. I had braids when I moved here and didn’t consider going natural so I did what I always did when I had braids. I spent two grueling days taking them out, went to the hair care store, bought a perm and asked my sister to apply it. My hair was thinner than it had ever been. I looked into the mirror and saw for the first time what I was doing to my hair. The damage, the heat, and for what? The damage was so bad that I had to cut my hair short and shave it in the back. Yes, it was cute. I could always rock a short do and never complained when it came to cutting my hair and giving new colors or styles a chance. After another month of curling, bumping, and gelling I had had enough. Everyday I walked outside I was graced with gorgeous natural styles: twists, locs, groomed fros. I remembered saying to myself, “I want that.” Then it began, I was going to do what it took to get what I wanted. For two months I let my hair grow. It was a grueling wait and a science experiment all it’s own. I didn’t know what to expect. I felt like a chia pet waiting for my hair to sprout out so I could see what it looked like. I wore scarves and head bands to conceal the binary that was being produced on my head: sleek and straight ends and curly and kinky roots. I wanted to break down occasionally but the beautiful, natural women of Brooklyn kept me on track. I kept setting dates for myself as to when I would cut off my processed hair. I would push back the dates because my hair wasn’t long enough. I did this at least three times. It had to be planned. It had to be right. At least that is how I thought it was supposed to be. The day I cut my hair I had no idea I was going to do it. I washed my hair like I usually did on Sunday’s, conditioned it and blew it dry. The next step was the curling iron. I was tired of this routine. I was fed up. I was ready. I called my sister and told her I was ready to make the big cut, she responded with justifiable skepticism because of my empty promises in the past. I didn’t know where the feeling was coming from but I remember not having a concern in the world that this was the wrong decision. I grabbed the scissors and I started cutting chunks of processed hair off. Letting the hair fall to my shoulder, into the sink…to the ground. Unveiling the new me, the real me. I stared into the mirror for hours admiring the new me and seeing my face for what seemed like the first time.

BEFORE

AFTER