Memories of the Afrocomb

On the train home from work last week, heads turned as I shrieked with laughter. Why? My friend and I were talking about our childhood hair horror stories. We chuckled about our memories of weekend washings, combings and braidings and the many tears that accompanied our "beautification". I recalled shrieking in pain as I sat between my mother's legs while she tugged a metal comb through my hair. Every vein in my scalp responded to the assault and it was a virtual explosion of pain. With my eyes bloodshot, we would make our way to the hair braider who commenced another round of pulls and tugs.

Even though my friend grew up in Kenya and I in Nigeria, our stories intersected in many ways. We had no fond childhood memories of our hair in its natural state. As the weekends would dawn, our younger selves would dread the plastic afro comb that sat on the bedroom dresser. The metal picks of the combs ended in the curved fist that formed the handle. I now believe the clenched fist on the comb handle sent a subliminal message-- "your hair is umanageable in every way and only the strongest, meanest methods can shape it."

Decades later, I have made peace with my natural hair. I love my hair! This nine-year journey has been the most validating of my life. I remember the moment when I ran a comb through my wet, silky, natural hair and it glided through the locks-- like a hot knife on butter. That moment marked my triumph over the afro comb.

Dear reader, I hope many things for this blog. Most of all, I hope to build a forum for the celebration of natural. Here's to happy hair stories!!