if i don’t love my kinks, i don’t love myself


“i pump a fist – even my hair got an ego” ~digable planets

a full 3 months and no heat has touched my wild mane of hair.  not one attempt to straighten, a defunct high powered blow dryer and a chi iron sit unplugged. i spent years scorching my hair with these devices. i actually mastered the art and blasphemy of straightening my hair thoroughly some months prior; a highly laborious process on my thick thick hair, minimum 5 hours; the placated demeanor of my mother unaware of the hardship and worthlessness; the self-violation of it all.

being kinky is different. it takes time to handle the curvaceousness, the contours of lush terrain but not so much time as straightening. consequentially it frees me to be more studious, more fit. the nonconformity mimics my rebel ways. unpredictable angles, corkscrews, zigzags, slinky’s, wooly sheep, sometimes lost objects lost in the abyss of organic shapes.

straightened I would get compliments, awe at the contrast of almost mid back straight length vs. roundabout the shoulder or even shorter depending on the humidity and the pouf of that particular day (it decides it’s length, not i). the racialized comments get under my skin sometimes, the superficiality, the microagressions. who in fact has any control over what particular shade of colonial rainbow vomit comes out in their phenotype? my liberated tresses deepen the ravine of guesswork. an indigenous nostril here, a gravity defying afro there, some trace of caucazoid obscured somewhere. why not revel in the netherworld? it’s much more truthful than the artifice and stagnation of categories. but that may be too anticapitalist for this american landscape where not categorizing means not being able to sell to that category.

i am hesitant to use the term curls in my self embrace. to me curly is the zucchini that comes out of my spiral slicer; a shirley templish formation. my hair is a thousandfold more bent and complex. a kinkywiryexpletive better described by fireworks and the chaos of some of pharoah sanders works; where beginning middle and end seem to blur and 19 minutes in you don’t quite know what planet you’re on. irrespective of the insufficiency of terminology, i’m enjoying my freedom.

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~ by cyrah on February 27, 2012.

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