The dictatorship in wearing a crown

Good Hair Day

Good Hair Day

Not everyday is a good hair day (ghd), but thank goodness I’ve come a long way from spending hours on it before I leave the house. In high school it took me forever to get my hair just right. School days would have been A LOT less stressful if I didn’t worry about ghd's.

I lived fairly close to my school but during my freshman year, a school bus was zoned for my neighborhood. Waiting for the bus each morning was not hair friendly.

Once at school, I would make a beeline to the bathroom to discover it wasn’t just me. Several girls were in the bathroom for hair repair. There is nothing you can do to put the curl back in the frizz, so on those days I put my hair in French braids wondering why I didn’t just wear it like that in the first place.

Adult me, saying to my kid self, “Because you were trying to be grown.” By the next year, my bus had been cut and daddy gave me a ride to school. One side of my hair stood a chance with the morning dew. The other side didn’t because daddy insisted on driving with his window down.

In my 24’s… when I didn’t really know what I wanted to be when I grew up, I went to cosmetology school. I got my license and did hair part-time for a couple of years, but I didn’t see how I was ever going to make enough money to quit my full-time job. Additionally, I never really enjoyed doing anyone’s hair but my own. Basically I paid cosmetology school tuition to learn how to do my own hair.

Earlier this year, I cut my hair shorter than my normal short and put in highlights when the weather started to warm up. I’ll call it Spring fever; from which I made myself ill.

I cut my hair way too short, and I couldn’t be ill with anybody but myself. I cut my bangs off trying to mimic the Halle Berry look. The haircut looked fine; the problem was I had to lose weight for the haircut to fit my face.

Each day, I look in the mirror and tell myself, “Look good; feel good.” This is my affirmation. It's a motivator to fix myself up, whether or not I have some place to go. So I do as I’m told.

My hair is my crown. She rules. No matter what is going on from the neck down. When I wear her well, I feel good.

Saturday morning, I stood in the mirror and tousled my hair trying to decide if I could feel good without wearing the crown. I took my handheld mirror to get a rear view and thanked my daddy for "good hair". My bangs have grown out and are now long enough to sweep to one side or the other. If I comb it all forward, I’ve got the Justin Bieber look. If I part in down the middle, I am rocking the 90s T-Boz hairstyle. Neither look is working for me, so I decide to add some flair with the flat iron and spruce it up.

Later that day, I was in Sam’s when an older white lady was closing in on me. I thought she was trying to get by but she had plenty of room. Timidly she said, “Excuse me…” I’m moving out of the way trying to see where she needs to go.

In her southern drawl she says, “I hope ya don’t thank um crazy foaskin you thius but cannah take ah pickcha of yoah hayah with ma sailphone? I’ve been trine to tell ma beautishun what I wont and if I cun take a pickcha of yoahs, I thank sheyall undastayund. Yoah hayah is so priddy.”

Beaming I said, “Sure!” Then I had to help her find the camrah in her sailphone.

Here’s the thing…my hair may dictate how I’m going to feel today but when I wear the crown, I shine like a star!

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