"found beauty in my bantu knots, behold the fingers of god"
i am still learning to love my hair despite the most recent revolution of natural hair. i have been going through yet another internal battle. i once again found myself resisting my afro's curl pattern and shape and wishing it moved the way other's do. the wash-and-go is an illusion. to me, so much of having an afro is the maintenance behind it; the conditioning, detangling, and over night styles. but with that, comes long nights struggling in a mirror doing bantu knots or early morning stress dealing with an untamed, undried twist out. all of which are unspoken when asked "what products do you use?" or "how long have you been natural?". the how-to-videos on youtube seem to mock me as these black women effortlessly fleek up their hair day after day. spitting hair types, curl patterns, products that never seem to work just right for my hair.
what is perfect hair? and why is mine only deemed beautiful when the shape, volume, and moisture fits into a standard of beauty outside of my own? why is it not beautiful when wrapped within a scarf or in a twist out? why can't it create its own form? i fight my hair and fight myself for it, but rarely do i watch the magic of my own hands and enjoy its relationship with the hair on my head. rarely do i let beauty unfold the way they deems worthy. rarely do i embrace my coiled african roots, my loose native american curls, and the random spurts of french the resonate on my scalp.
this piece reflects a moment in which i did.
© 2015 Tarah Douglas