I remember growing up and every Sunday, my mother would sit me down in the same hard wooden chair, drape a towel over my shoulders and begin to press my hair. The smell of the hot comb would wake me up in the morning like the smell of bacon frying on the stove. Only the tears of joy for bacon were tears of pain from having my ears nearly singed off.
I promised myself that if I ever had a daughter, I would never subject her to the agony of having to have her hair pressed- at least not with a hot comb. Lucky for me, I did get pregnant and had a beautiful baby girl with hair as thick as wool but soft like cotton. As a new mom, doing hair was something that was completely foreign to me and for the first year and a half of her life, she walked around and older women probably cursed me in the heads for not doing my daughter's hair. Contrary to what they knew, what they were looking at was the result of attempting some style I had found on Pintrest. I became so hopeless when it came to her hair, I almost loc'd it. Twice.
Now that my little love muffin is almost four, I have gotten a lot better at styling her natural tresses. I love letting her comb her doll's hair while I am doing hers and teaching her to love the beauty of her own hair by introducing her to children's books like Happy Hair that are made specifically for little brown girls to accept their gorgeous features. I realize that teaching my daughter self love is just not a lesson for her but a reiteration for myself as well. She is made in my image and I am made in hers.