“I am not defined by my hair”…sounds catchy, doesn’t it? It resonates with me; I aspire to feel empowered regardless of my outward appearance. Yet, the reality is, my identity is intertwined with my hair.

I embody complexity akin to its myriad of curls and coils…I admire its versatility while occasionally grappling with its stubbornness.

I am my hair.

During moments of “misbehavior,” I felt a personal weight, a tinge of embarrassment. I strived to avoid appearing unkempt, unmanageable, or vulnerable. Primarily, my natural hair left me feeling exposed. I sought refuge in wigs and sew-ins, creating personas where I controlled every narrative. Each alter ego meticulously curated, styled, and presented. I held dominion – over myself, my hair, and my emotions.

Wash days were tedious…having been natural for years, I transitioned from relaxed to natural with keratin treatments post-high school. As a seasoned stylist, I understood the essence of proper hair care. Despite my expertise, I lacked the patience and the right haircut to manage my curls. Transitioning from traditional sew-ins to protective styles like closure installs shielded my natural hair, allowing it to thrive unnoticed. Deep conditioning became routine, roots meticulously attended to. When I did flaunt my natural hair, it was confined to a bun atop my head, its health apparent yet disregarded.

As time elapsed, I embraced my burgeoning confidence. My inner strength manifested externally, driving my evolution. After years of concealing myself behind my hair, I opted for change. Styling others’ hair was one thing – baring my true self, relinquishing control to another’s scissors, was another ordeal. Envy stirred as I admired fellow naturalistas’ voluminous, majestic hair. I scoured for a curl expert who could unleash my afro’s potential. Settling on a ‘big chop’ during AfroPunk Brooklyn seemed fitting, surrounded by a sea of black and brown faces. Entrusting @THEMONACUT, whose Instagram transformations captivated me, was nerve-wracking. Braids, wigs, weaves, even scarves made from favorite fabrics were within my comfort zone – mastering them was effortless.

But confronting my authentic, unadorned self was a challenge I couldn’t evade.

With each snip, each layer shed, I experienced liberation. Witnessing my natural hair flourish, I felt truly seen. In its raw glory, I found beauty within, a reflection of my true self. For me, that moment encapsulated personal freedom.

I am my hair.

Imperfectly perfect, wonderfully crafted.

I am deserving of the journey, every twist and turn.

From shunning Eurocentric standards to defining my personal best…Whether in disarray or perfectly coiled, my hair mirrors my essence. Authentic in its imperfections, emboldened by its uniqueness, I stand proud. For the first time in ages, I beheld my reflection with clarity. I embraced my features – the freckles on my nose, the resemblance to my parents. I felt a profound sense of pride, of beauty. Not in the conventional sense of ‘face beat, hair laid,’ although that too is valid. I felt beautiful in the divine creation kind of way.

The decision to cut my hair transcended mere aesthetics. It was about self-discovery, an affirmation of the body, mind, and soul bestowed upon me. It signaled a response to the Universe’s call – to embrace my life’s purpose authentically. It was a cathartic journey, a revelation my soul yearned for. Braids still adorn my head, protective styles remain a favorite, and custom-colored wigs hold a special place.

Yet, this journey of healing, of self-love and care…only my truest, most unadorned self could comprehend and cherish.