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Guest Blogger: Tiffany
Tiffany left the comforts of Linden, NJ in order to embark on a new adventure in Philadelphia, PA. After 5 years and becoming a fine connoisseur of ramen noodles, she graduated within the top percentile of her class and received her BArch. from Temple University. Upon graduation, she started working at a nationally recognized architecture firm and began her quest to save the world – one building at a time. In the spring of 2009, Tiffany entered amongst the elite as a registered architect; and has been committed to advancing the field through various diversity initiatives such as bringing awareness to elementary school students and mentoring college bound young adults. Tiffany does not like chocolate – nor does she care for pastel colors. She enjoys long walks on the beach and enhancing the beauty and spirit of her old Victorian-styled home with her bare hands. When she is not tending to her afro, she is cuddled up with a good inspirational book, listening to loud rock music or encouraging her musician husband to never lose faith and continue on his quest to become a rock star.
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So.
I was one of those people that were born with a FULL head of hair… It seems like from the very beginning that I was destined to have a life full of hair stories…I am finally beginning to realize that my hair is actually a vehicle for my strength and wisdom today.
My journey begins with the legendary straighten comb and tiny braids and cornrows with beads on the ends… These were my mother’s saving graces…
They seemed to be the only thing to make my hair manageable – or maintained and presentable for a period of time…
BUT… not only did I have a full head of hair – I was tender headed…
Sadness.
Pain.
Tears.
I am sure that this was not a place that any mother would want to see their daughter. It was horrible.
No matter what she did – I was either:
- Crying from her futile attempts at combing through my hair.
- Crying from even the thought of the hot comb anywhere near my scalp…
- Crying from the tightness of the braids – I mean, they needed to last as long as possible, right?
- Crying.
- Crying.
- Crying.
She couldn’t take it anymore and eventually I got a Perm.
Needless to say, this brought great friction to the family – especially since I was forever reminded that I should have had hair down my back “by now” (Just like my cousins) – had my mother not given me a perm at such a young age.
- Is her hair falling out?
- Is it breaking off?
At that point those talking points were almost irrelevant because:
- There was no more crying.
During my Elementary school days, I would rock (4) ponytail braids, (1) ponytail in the back – or if my mother was adventurous – I would even have curls from the curling iron.
- Hum… is my hair getting shorter?
Every time I went to the salon to get a “trim” I would go home crying because I felt like what little length of hair I had was just chopped off… I just saw my hair getting shorter and shorter.
In my head… the pretty girls had the long hair…
- AND My hair was no where near being long.
I just felt this in my heart – despite how talented or smart I was… it didn’t matter. I was inferior because of my mane.
But just think about it – how many products are out there promising to be the “miracle” product that will guarantee your hair to grow? And you go out there and buy every single one of them – with the hopes that “This will be the one!”
Hilarious – Clearly all of that faith and energy should have been directed somewhere else.
Now what happened to me in Middle School…..is something that I wouldn’t even wish on my worst enemy.
((kids can be so cruel))
My mother and my hairdresser came up with this “solution” to my hair breakage problems…
Basically, THEY decided to cut damn near all of my hair off – not to go natural, but to prepare my hair for an alternative chemical process… “The Wave”.
Now – I wasn’t stupid…I used that “term” to make myself feel better about my situation.. I mean – that’s kind of what it said on the bottle – BUT Lord knows that it was just a glorified Jheri Curl.
((I think I cried damn near every day after school – just trying to wrap my brain around the ridicule, jokes, and cerebral torture))
It was horrible on so many levels.
- Boys put spitballs in my hair.
- They started to call me “Hairy” – Because NOW I had “Too Much” hair… (wth?)
- It was greasy – and always moist…. That did not help in gym class on the mats.
- I didn’t look like the other girls with straight hair…And at this point it wasn’t even about the length of hair – just was long as it wasn’t the “soul glow”…. So great – now even the girls with no hair whatsoever were able to pick on me.
I was just an easy target.
Read More on Tiffany’s Blog myauxspace.blogspot.com/
