The Paradox of Hair

When I was a child, my mother used to tell me I had such beautiful black hair. Rolled ringlets dipped in ink, falling just how a picture perfect hair-do would. Just how a celebrity’s would. It became my most noticeable feature, something that would draw people from far and wide, from parents who wanted to know how I had so much volume, to barbers who refused to cut it even at the insistence of my mother. It was thick and curly and probably surmounted the size of my head. 

But tread lightly. For eventually I felt hair creep and poke out of my arms and my legs and my face. It belonged to the unwanted gifts of puberty. I didn’t notice what a transformation hair would undertake in my vocabulary. I didn’t anticipate that I would encounter a mess of paradoxes on whether hair was my dear friend or my greatest enemy. In fact, it was not until my brother pointed out my peach fuzz or until my aunt pointed out my hair-lined shins that I became utterly confused. 

Since when did my hair become unlikeable? 

When I was younger, the hairdresser told me I should be proud of my mass of thick Hollywood hair, while simultaneously asking if I wanted a wax. Who knew that where this bush resided determined whether it was free to stay or urged to go? Who knew that some hair was welcomed as permanent residents, while others seemed to overstep their welcome? From the age of nine, I heard the repetitions of older women claiming it was ‘time I start thinking about hair removal.’ I do not recall when the transformation inculcated itself into my brain. When did I start to dislike my hair? 

One time, surrounded by my mother and aunts, I gave in to the ideal. I got my first wax, from a lady in the convenience of my own home. The first time I felt the hot wax cover and leave my arms, I screamed so loud at the sheer pain it incurred. But she kept going, and eventually laid both my arms side by side, delighting on how smooth the hairless one was in comparison. This was not the end though, it was only the beginning. No one told me that hair was going to come back.

When I was younger, a boy in seventh grade, with dolphin-smooth skin, called me a gorilla for the lines of black that encompassed my exterior. And so I ripped myself to shreds, I plucked myself to shreds. I carried a razor blade as armour against this incessant monster. But I never wore shorts in school again or tank tops again, bikinis were out of the question, even when I found myself plucked raw. For the most part I was able to keep it at bay. I wouldn’t let that hair be seen to the public because I didn’t want to cause widespread panic. Instead, I hid behind my thick black head of hair, refusing to cut it short, because it distracted him from the black of my sideburns. I’m friends with this boy now. He has developed facial hair that looks like ringlets dipped in ink, but I still find myself tugging down my sleeves when I’m around him… 

When I was younger, hair proved to be the biggest determining factor about me. This was the price I had to pay to exist as a woman, a woman with surprisingly exuberant testosterone hormones. It was always there, its doors open, attracting visitors from far and wide. There were some who saw the grand opening, a girl with beautiful curls that bounced to a halt. While others saw the behind-the-scenes, when hair adamantly begged to stay. I couldn’t seem to kick it out. Hair never gave up, no matter how much I told it it was unwanted. I became the one woman show, who could play the beauty queen— or the bearded lady. 

When I was younger, I thought hair was just a wild passerby, one who made my life better and fun and always ready to try something new. But now I know, it will never pass, because it has decided to stay. 

When I was younger, I used my hair to cover my insecurities. But now it covers everything… 

So I have let it stay. I deal with hair in the only way I can deal with any relationship; through compromise. I learned that it was okay not to shave every day, and that my hair-lined shins were worthy of wearing dresses. I learned to love the ringlets on my head and those elsewhere. I learned that it was also okay to say goodbye to hair for a few days, and embrace dolphin-smooth skin. Because I am no longer young, and anyone who criticises what I do with my hair is still a child. 

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• hair