I am not my hair?

India.Arie's "I Am Not My Hair" bumps in my headphones.

I bob my head along to the beat, trying to believe it, but I can't quite wrap my head around the notion that my hair has no bearing on my identity. For over 20 years, my hair has been the essence of my being; the first thing noticed when I walk into a room. It has been both my best friend, and my worst enemy. 

The child of a pin-straight haired white woman, and a dreadlocked black man made my journey with the frizzy curls atop my head extremely difficult. Everything I know I had to learn on my own.

Naturally, as most young girls do, I felt the need to experiment. My elementary through middle school years was a blur of bad hair cuts, and lots of braids. In 7th grade, I received my first flat iron. The next 3 years would be spent frying my hair, and lemme tell y'all—my edges suffered. 

It wasn't until mid-10th grade when I discovered hair tutorials on Youtube, and the rest was history. I finally was able to gain the knowledge needed in order to take proper care of my hair. As soon as I began to practice healthy and natural techniques, my hair flourished. I was able to put down that flat iron for good, as I was no longer ashamed of my formerly coarse, unmanageable hair; I wore my newly moisturized curls with pride. 

After years of self hatred stemming from my unhealthy relationship with my hair, this step was crucial for my self esteem. I finally had some part of me that I could look in the mirror and not automatically feel resentment towards. The best part of that was that it's all mine, naturally; not manufactured after two hours in front of a mirror by singeing my tresses. My hair was my first taste of true confidence.

I don't want to paint an overly idealistic picture of my story; it's not all butterflies and rainbows. Frustration, boredom, and even the occasional loathing still permeate my thoughts toward my hair from time to time. Not to mention, the bigger it gets, the more it seems to attract unwarranted touches. But, above all of that, I can now value my hair and all the quirks that come with it. In recognizing that, though, I must also acknowledge the privilege that I have: It has been much easier for me to accept my loose, 3b curls because society has recently added them to the list of acceptable standards of beauty. Meanwhile, many of my 4c sisters still live in shame of their locks in a world that has ostracized them from that standard.

More recently, I had been seeing a lot of people on Instagram and other social media who had done the "big chop," and described the experience as "liberating." After gaining some inspiration, I decided I wanted to cut my hair, too. Not bald, but shorter than I'd ever cut my hair before. The curls that were formerly down to my mid-back now ended at my jawline. I, too, wanted to feel liberated, but instead, the tiny puff I was left with made me feel insecure; it just wasn't a right fit for me. 

While I wait for it to grow back out to a more comfortable length, I have decided to come to terms with the fact that I'm not ready to give it all up; I'm just not there yet. My hair speaks to who I am. Maybe one day I will be able to rise above this realm of the physical. For now though, I will accept and appreciate what I've been given, and pray for growth—literally.