My Middle school years were brutal. I was the outsider, the new kid, and the outcast. Bullies called me horrible names, and in return, I would unleash a vicious verbal smackdown in an attempt to defend myself. I quickly learned that my abrasive tongue lashing was my brass knuckles, my kung fu kick, and knock-out punch.
One day, my defense shattered into dust when my archenemies hurled kryptonite in my face, and it instantaneous melted my confidence and identity. What was that, kryptonite that left me speechless? We all experienced that kryptonite moment. It’s when a stranger, family member, friend, or foe says something so cruel and hurtful that it destroys your inner being.
My kryptonite moment was when my archenemies in Middle school called me “Cotton Ball Head.”
If a woman’s hair is her glowing crown of glory, what did my massive, unruly hair say about me? The hair commercials, glamorous celebrities, and marketing executives unfairly established the guidelines of real beauty and cotton ball hair did not fit into their category.
My eldest sister, Dina, had a super cool, superfly afro. She proudly strutted to school dressed in a mini-skirt, black leather jacket, and boots even when the temperature was over a hundred degrees. She was the original hipster that had me dancing in a Soul Train line to the funky beats of Curtis May, Earth Wind and Fire, and the Gap Band. Her body and afro bounced in perfect harmony to the African soulful rhythms. I wanted to be like Dina and then quickly realized it was an insuperable fantasy. I looked like a fluttering moth on crack whenever I tried to breakdance.
Dina made many futile attempts to comb my hair into an afro. After all the hairspray, teasing and raking my hair with a pick, it stubbornly roamed free like electrical currents in a blistering lighting storm.
My second eldest sister, Grace, had cornrows. She eagerly taught me that each curvilinear artistic braid represented the strength and courage our African ancestors amplified to survive the brutal passage of slave ships, the inhumane chains of slavery, racial injustices, and the violent fight for civil rights. While her classmates were required to read Malcolm X, Mayla Angelou, and James Baldwin, my brilliant sister was quoting Claude McKay, Richard Wright, and Amiri Baraka. The colorful beads she neatly placed on each cornrow shouted freedom, strength, and dignity.
Grace offered many times to braid my hair into cornrows. I dreaded the hours it would take to wrestle the thousand hair strains into a luminary story. I squirmed and whined so loudly, frustrated; Grace abandoned the task.
After days of being called Cotton Ball Head, it was time to take drastic measure – the hot comb.
The only time Mom put the metal comb on the stove’s burner was for momentous occasions like Easter church service, weddings, and the annual family portrait.
Mom reluctantly agreed to style my hair even though I passionately hated and feared the hot comb. I flinched, jumped, and shrieked when the hot comb was a foot away from my scalp, but it always felt too close. Mom impatiently warned me to sit still before I get burned. I hated the sizzling sound, the smoke ascending from my head, and the terrible stench of burnt hair.
Finally, my hair transformed into a flowing wimpy crown. I admired myself in the mirror as I rolled my head around like the models on the shampoo commercials. I combed my fingers through my hair without it getting stuck or tangled.
I held my head high and strolled down the street towards my school.
Unfortunately, my confidence and hair quickly frizzled as it began to drizzle. I raced to Middle school, dashed into the bathroom, and looked into the mirror, horrified at my reflection — Cotton Ball Head on steroids.
I had to make a choice. I could fake sickness and go home early or hide in the bathroom stall until the janitor found me. I thought about Dina and Grace and their stylish, unwavering independence.
I walked out of the bathroom, head held high, my rebellious hair swinging to my rhythm, and a heart beating with courage. And from that day forward, I stopped the brutal tongue thrashing. I had finally decided to wear my crown of glory with dignity and strength. My acceptance of myself was my bold weapon against every form of kryptonite.
