When 'Good Hair' Hurts
For years, I relaxed my black hair using painful chemicals as a way to find acceptance in my mostly white environment.
I can vividly recall being a kid, standing in front of a mirror, and wishing I was someone else. Maybe I could be Christina Aguilera or Jennifer Lopez; Beyonce or Aaliyah. They were all singers who shared the one thing I coveted for the better part of my 26 years—not their musical talent, but their “good hair.”
I used to loathe the days I had to sit in the kitchen while my mom worked her comb through my tight, unyielding curls. As I drove my nails into the seat of my chair, I imagined having the long, straight tresses of the famous women I admired. Some days I would go into the bathroom and pull a t-shirt over my forehead so that the collar hugged my hairline and the rest fell down my back
