"A woman's hair is her crown and glory" author unknown to this writer.

That phrase would echo through my existence, like a mantra. Reminding me, that in no uncertain terms, I didn't measure up. That the measure of my worth would be the stuff that grew atop my head; not that which grew within it.






My Youth
As far as hair is concerned, I started out like any other little girl; I was born bald.
Over time, my hair grew and I can remember my mother braiding my hair into what we called "plats". I remember how special it felt to sit between her knees and have my hair combed. How I loved to have my hair combed!! I was one of six children and any time when my mother's attention was directed my way was a special time. Not only did she "plat" my hair, she also cornrowed it. In her world, that was "plating" also. I thought she was an artist at plating our (my three sisters and I) hair. She would dip her finger down into that jar of "grease" (pomade) and bring it up to a freshly parted section of hair and rub it in quickly. How quickly she could move from one section to another. She usually combed our hair, versus brushing it. She had to get us all done quickly, so there were no long sessions where she simply brushed for the sake of brushing- she had other responsibilities to attend to.

I don't remember when we first started going to have our hair "done". It was after I started school. I remember going to see a woman who had a shop not far from our home. My mother walked us over there the first few times (she didn't know how to drive), then she started letting us walk on our own. My mother knew how to press our hair, but she started letting this woman do it instead. I hated having my hair pressed!! The heat and the burns and having to stay perfectly still. The sizzle of the grease as it met that hot comb. Hoping and praying that the grease was far enough from my scalp that it didn't sizzle down the hunk of hair she was holding and burn my head! One day I went to the "hair dresser" and she didn't press my hair, she put something like a cream or lotion on it. I had no idea what was to happen next. The stuff burned and I complained. She said that it had to stay on my hair for a little while longer. She took me to the sink and washed my hair as usual. I always held my eyes tightly shut so as not to get shampoo in them. When she finished washing she didn't press and style my hair like she normally would. Instead, she wrote a note, sent my sister and I home, and told me to take the note to my mother. Little did I know that she had washed most of my hair down the sink that day.

So began my days of wearing a teeny weeny afro (TWA). As a kid with little to no hair, in a time that did not appreciate natural hair, I was the center of unwelcome attention on many a day. In a world full of little children who loved to tease, I would hear; "Is that a boy or a girl?", ringing through the school yard, or on my way to and from school. My mother's friends would visit and I would get that backhanded compliment; "Well, at least she has a pretty face." I learned to keep make myself as small and unnoticeable as I possibly could. I learned to turn a steely ear to the taunts and the well meant words. I learned how to live apart from everyone. I made myself my own best company. Remember Whoopi's routine about a little girl who wore a shirt on her head and talked about her "long luxurious hair", that was me. I put shirts, towels, anything on my head that could help me pretend that it was my long luxurious hair.

When I got to the sixth grade and the start of Junior High School, my Mom bought me a wig. I was estatic! I would look like everyone else, or so I thought. On the first day of school I leaned a little too far back in a chair and went crashing to the ground. The wig didn't come off, but it managed to lurch forward and hang over my eyes. It wasn't long before everyone knew that my hair wasn't mine. Junior High also meant P.E. classes, dressing and undressing in the locker room with other girls. Shirts and sweaters going over your head. A wig slipping around in the process. It didn't take long for me to abandon that pretense and go back to my TWA.

High School brought its own set of difficulties. Being interested in boys. Getting invited to parties and never being asked to dance. The best thing that happened was the birth of the Black Power Movement. "Naturals" were in. My natural hair was finally earning a place in everyday life. Too bad Angela Davis spoiled it all. She had the biggest, baddest Afro and anybody who wore a natural wanted that kind of length. Much to my delight- they started making Afro wigs. With my Afro wig- I could hold my head up high and I could feel like any of the other girls. It was much more difficult to tell whether I was wearing my hair or someone else's. I held onto my wig, I wore it everywhere. When we had to take swimming in P.E., my wig went under that swim cap like it was my own hair. It was crazy, but it was something that I could hold onto to help define my femininity. I looked good in my wig and I was finally being asked out by boys. My wig stayed on my head clear through to the end of my high school days.

My Adulthood
Going into college represented a fresh start. I had a steady boyfriend and I had revealed my TWA to him by the time I went away to school. He accepted me for the person that I was and I was happy to be out of hiding. Some may wonder why my hair never grew much in all this time. My guess is that it was a combination of not properly caring for it and that my head had gone through a shock of some sort. Wearing a wig long term can take its toll as well. Although my hair grew in places, it was also falling out in places. I would secure the wig with bobby pins (no slipping or falling off!!). Where the bobby pins would grab my hair, it started to form bald spots. The 70's ushered in Afro Sheen and some moisturizers, but it was early in the game. I have very dry hair and only knew about grease (pomade). My scalp was getting greased, but my hair was dry. I actually started using lotion (Jergens Lotion) on my hair back in my senior year of high school. My hair was growing and breaking at a steady rate. It never grew much beyond about 4 inches. Although I was out of wigs, I still used them to create a new look for myself from time to time. I had several styles and would switch between them when I went out. College was the first time that I was able to have friendships with women. I had become very separated and cautious around just about everyone. My female acquaintances from Junior High School thought that it made a good joke to tell people that had never met me that I had long, beautiful jet black Hawaiian hair. The look on the faces of those poor innocents would be one of rampant confusion when we finally met. The pretty girls would use me to hold their books while they talked to boys when we walked home from school. In College I found friends who told me about how to arch my eyebrows and wear makeup. They respected me for my mind (I was always a good student). I started to build some self-confidence. In my third year of College I went on a study abroad program to Spain. That was the best trip of my entire life. I was an exotic Black Queen in Spain! There's nothing like having people want to see you, want to be near you. It's kind of like being a celebrity, if only for a short while. I needed that external validation. I needed to feel desireable, and I got all that while I was in Spain. I wore my TWA proudly. By the time I came back to the USA, I was ready to take on the world.

I got my first job and I worked hard. That job led to another job and from there another job. It took me 10 years to go back and finish College. In the meantime, I played hair games. By this time, braids were big again. Being an artist (I have a degree in Studio Art), this was the hairstyle for me. I learned how to braid while I was in High School and had braided the hair of many a family member. Now I took to my own head and I had long braids, down to my butt! Those cheap bags of synthetic hair became my best friend. I could keep braids for long periods of time. I would braid and rebraid until I got tired of braids. I would give my hair a rest and then braid it up again. I would spend an entire weekend braiding my head. People at work used to be mystified. I would walk out on Friday with my TWA and come in on Monday with a head full of braids. I kept that up for years. My hair actually started to grow during this period. When I finally had enough hair to consider relaxing, I went for it. I went to a local salon and started having my hair permed on a regular basis. When my regular stylist was away, I would go to the other black stylist in the shop. My stylist was kind and knew my hair texture. The second stylist would burn the heck out of my head. After a couple of years, my hair started to fall out in the top of my head. I gave relaxers a rest for a few years. As soon as the hair grew back in- away I went to have it relaxed. The last woman to ever relax my head, used to do this bone straight relaxer and then taught me how to wrap my hair around my head. That bone straight relaxer succeeded in knocking out whatever life was left in my hair. In my early 30's I finally gave up on relaxers and stuck to my TWA and braid extensions.

Extensions were fun. I would curl them and twist them and do all sorts of different styles. They were fun, but they weren't my hair. After years of being either in my TWA or my braids, I began to feel fake. I wanted my hair to grow and I wanted my hair to be my hair. My sister was the first person that I ever got to see up close and feel locks. She kind of came out and "declared" that she was going to let her hair lock and that we should all follow suit. It would take me three years to do so. She started out with about 3 inches of natural hair. She 2-strand twisted it and set it free. She also convinced my sister-in-law to let her hair lock about a year later. Now I had two examples of locked heads to watch. By the time my sister's locks hit their second year, they were hanging in her face. They were thick and starting to take on a reddish color. She had lightened them with something (either Sun-In or lemon juice). She was happy with them and always had stories about people's reaction to them. In 1997 I was finally ready to start my locks. I had had a set of extensions in for about two years. My hair usually took on a loced look once I removed the extensions. This time, instead of combing my hair out, I just let it stay as it was when the extensions came out. I washed it and used braid spray on it. That was the extent to which I knew how to maintenance my locks. Over time they began to thin and eventually I became disenchanted with them. I felt like so many had been shed from my head and that people must notice that they were missing. About one year after I started them, I cut them out and went back to my TWA. I also went back to extensions. My last set of extensions I had done at a shop. The woman who did them had a very brisk business doing hair. I remember that it took her four hours to put micros in my hair. She used human hair and I had no idea how much she was going to charge me. She ended up charging a little over $200 and I was shocked. I kept that hair in as long as I could. When I got laid off from my job, I took those extensions out and vowed that I was not going to wear someone else's hair again. I was through being someone else. I wanted to be me, to feel my hair on my head. I started my second set of locks. This time I took time to learn how to maintain them and how to keep my hair moisturized and how to nuture them. My lock journey started one year ago. I have learned a lot in that year. I have learned to love me. I have learned to accept what I have to offer, what my hair had to offer me. I'm learning more and more about accepting myself as a whole person. I'm learning that to love myself is as important, if not moreso, than having someone love me. That the little girl who felt so alone and ugly and insecure has a lot to offer the world. That hair is just a small part of what makes up the woman. That a woman's hair is her crown, as long as she accepts it as her crown and is proud to show it, and her face, to the world. It's taken me fourty years to learn this. Each and every experience along the way has helped to shape me as a person. I don't regret a thing. In my humility I have been humbled.

To learn more about my loc journey, please go to my page The Year of Locing Carefully

Welcome to
Leslie's Hair Journey

(the first 47 years)
7 years old Junior Prom-wig 1975-wig 1977 TWA College graduation Pic- 1983 Wedding Pic- 1983 First set of locks- 1998 Back to TWA- 1999 Extensions- 2000 Second set of locs- 2002 Today
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