Deep Conditioning

 

“Long hair, don’t care” the boys preach as I reach for the $4.99 creamy crack. Every 2 months. 8 weeks. 56 days. A lifetime of addiction. Well, I wouldn’t call it an addiction per se. Well, maybe. Merely one of life’s necessities, like food or water. A black woman’s necessity. Soft & Beautiful Just For Me. You see, I must scratch the “good hair” itch, while my natural-haired peers ridicule my requirement. Merely rooted from a shallow desire or stemmed from a deep-seeded dislike, they assume. Quite the contrary. 

Must I debate with my dreaded, locked, afro-sporting sisters because I hadn’t experienced the damaging effects of permanents? They had been beat down and tore up.  From broken ends to a lack of hair growth to scalp burns, these women chose to end their relationship with relaxers because of the abuse they endured. But, the creamy crack had been good to me. The creamy crack treated me well and I had no reason to call it quits and move on. My hair was long, thick, and nicely moisturized. A success story of a relaxer? Possibly. Most girls can’t believe it. Can’t believe it to the extent to which they see it fit to contest why my “good hair” will only last so long. As if my creamy crack will one day turn its back on me and leave me bald headed and regretful. To their disappointment, my creamy crack and I are forever. 

Do I suffer through the discomfort of the ammonium thioglycolate in a simple-minded attempt to assimilate? Do I relax my texture to soften the blows of those not of my culture? Yes, I thin my thick roots. I crave employment. I fixate over easy mornings. I obsess over broken combs. But no, I’m not enslaved by my addiction. Merely infatuated. A case of deep conditioning is all.