Evidently, a Black woman wearing an Afro is giving the historically discriminatory restrictions placed on Black women the middle finger. This isn’t the account of a lady whose experience with natural hair left her jaded and debilitated, nor is it a profound rebuke of the movement in which I spent many hours, months, and years taking part. As I stood in front of the mirror again, this time with straighter strands cascading down the side of my face instead of coils springing up and out, I began to consider my rationale in anticipation of the innumerable inquiries and unsolicited warnings my friends, family, and social media peeps would inundate me with. After blow-drying it straight, a faint sheen formed on my fluffy, blown-out strands, causing me to gleefully whip my hair back and forth. My hair was wavy and clung to my scalp the way I remembered a fresh relaxer should. I returned to the mirror to finish the styling portion of the process. The creamy crack had reclaimed an old victim. For me, it was the relaxer aisle at my local beauty salon. Loneliness and frustration can often drive us back to a place of familiarity. Instead, I smirked as I pondered the endless variations of styles my new texture would inspire. As the neutralizing shampoo dissolved every drop of the relaxer from my hair, there wasn’t a wince or a wail when the water ran over the tingling spots. After a few minutes of sitting with the concoction in my head, a faint tingling sensation began at the nape of my neck, and it was time to wash out. My mother stands above me, assessing the spiraled coils slightly stretched out from the “Meek braids” they were previously in, and applies the thick, smelly, white mixture. It’s a balmy summer day and the faint smell of boiled eggs is permeating my bathroom.

But today, as I steal a glance into it, I’m feeling an ounce of guilt for what I’m about to do.

Like Issa Rae’s Insecure character Issa Dee, my bathroom mirror has always been my sort of silent confidante, especially when it comes to my dissatisfaction with my hair. The large mirror on my bathroom wall has witnessed more singing auditions, crying meltdowns, and self-interviews than the mirror at any NYC club.

Read all of The State of Black Beauty here.

Sew art crack