By: Tashea Richards
Ok guys. So if you read my last post, you’ve learned how it all began. Me, as a child, struggling with my insecurities of natural hair.
Let’s just fast forward to 2010. My hair seemed to never grow past my shoulder blades before I decided I needed a new look. FYI I needed a new look every 6 months. I bleached, colored, cut, and had trendy styles. However, it was always simply cascaded over my shoulders or in a bun. There was no in-between.
A trip to the hair dresser, for me, was like a day at the spa, because I would spend no less than 9 hours at the salon. It was my only vice. I would religiously book my appointment within 6 to 8 weeks. Then budget for my monthly addiction, ranging between $80 to $160.
They always blamed the price influx because my hair was “too thick”. STRIKE ONE! My hair needed to be perfect. The thought of going natural disgusted me. My regular hair dresser moved on to high profile clients. Since then it’s been a nightmare.
Replacing my stylist was harder than I thought. I encountered so many problems with what seemed to be beauty school dropouts.
I would go to the Dominicans. Their prices were reasonable and my hair was bone straight, but I sacrificed the health of my hair whenever I went. I can smell my hair frying as my tresses were MANHANDLED.
I went to a salon that co-workers recommended and this chick tried to flat iron my hair WET!!! Her reasoning was to make the hair less dry. STRIKE TWO!
Maintaining relaxed hair was no joke. Wrapping it every night, making sure you don’t sweat it out at the gym, recovering from burns, breakage, the list goes on.
It began to feel like I would never find the right stylist. It was always a hit or miss. It started to feel like someone was sabotaging my beauty regimen due to jealosy. My hair began to lose its bounce and my pockets started to go dry. I was spending over $300 A MONTH for my hair to look “normal”. No curls, no bump at the end, just straight.
My last encounter with creamy crack took the cake. I went to this prominent hair dresser in the Virgin Islands that everyone raved about. I’ve never been one to follow the hype, but I kept hearing that “Michelle got the hookup”. I booked my appointment, and cleared my schedule. It was going to be a long day! My boyfriend came with me. He wanted to witness for himself what took so long.
I could already smell the ammonia from the relaxer that she was mixing. I had to take a double take. I could not believe that this lady was going to charge me $125 for a Kmart boxed perm. Immediately I said, “Ma’am, this is not going to work out. That relaxer does not work for my hair type. You also need two boxes. She insisted she knew what she was doing, however, my hair has a way of humbling even the cockiest of hairstylists.
I began to feel the burn before she was through. She was SLOW!!! She dumped the rest of the product on my hair and rushed me to the sink. My scalp was on fire. All decorum went out the window. She then proceeded with warm water as she tried to add more relaxer.
NO! NO! NO! NO! WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! LADY!
She eventually eased the burn, however, it did not end there. She dried my hair. As she parted, I felt the comb snag on my SCALP!!! The scabs were already starting to form! Puss began oozing from my scalp. This never happens to me.
I WAS STRESSED.
I should have walked out when I saw the boxed perm. I don’t know what I was thinking. Fast forward to her styling my hair. My hair felt predictably light. I was scared to look in the mirror and see Dobby from Harry Potter. Surprisingly, my hair looked full. A little too full. By then my boyfriend had already waited 7 hours. I wanted to him to adore the finished product, gaze at me lovingly, and tell me how stunning I looked.
Instead, he smirked and said, you look good baby. Not the reaction I wanted, but given circumstances, it put me at ease. (Moment of silence for the most patient bf ever!)
As I walked out the door, I felt my hair blowing in the wind and frizzing with every step. The worst feeling ever after paying $125. (Okay maybe it wasn’t my money, but I did feel it was a waste.)
He then hollered, “LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, WITHOUT FURTHER ADO, NOW INTRODUCING CONDELEEZA RICE” …
ALL I SAW WAS RED. Not sure what happened after that, but let’s just say it was not pretty.
From that point on, I decided.
I WILL NEVER EVER EVER touch creamy crack ever again!
My next post, I’ll explain how I survived THE BIG CHOP. AND TIPS FOR THOSE WHO ARE TRANSITIONING.