But It’s Not Just Hair

I cut off six inches (one year’s worth of hair growth) from my hair on Sunday, the 25th of November, 2018. My host had gone for “Christ, The King” procession, only to return to find an "absorbed Amanda furiously chopping off her hair in front of the dressing mirror." (He would later admit to being scared for me.)

My natural hair turned Three on the 1st of March 2019, counting from the day I had big-chopped all the way down to my scalp in a barbershop in Enugu. I was recovering from Autoimmune and I felt there was nothing left to lose since my hair strands were falling off by the mere brush of a hand. So on that Tuesday morning in 2016, I walked into the barbershop with my hair on my head, and walked out with a shiny bare scalp.

My hair would grow so well eventually, even though I did not use synthesized products. By its second year natural, when stretched, the front tresses were nipple-length and the strands behind were mid back-length.

An acquaintance had doubted the credibility of my hair once. She asked for the "magic product" I used in growing my hair long. She would have none of my truth telling, so I showed her photos of the women in my family; my mother. my sisters. She conceded by joking about having her brother marry into my family, so they could partake of my family’s good hair gene.

Lagos had drained me emotionally. It showed; I was having a stress-induced Trichotillomania flare up, split edges were multiplying and my tips were shedding. In all of this mess, people still complemented my hair every time I decided to let it out. I felt like a fraud. So after that satisfying Sunday afternoon nap, I took the scissors to my hair. I did not trim, I chopped... self-terrorism.

I love to scarf. I have always loved to scarf since I was a child. Partly in honor of the Ichafụ heritage and my Igboness. Partly because it protects my hair. Partly because of the way it frames my face. Partly because I am an old soul. Partly because it is slightly different from the norm around here. Partly in honour of my maternal grandmother (bless her Creole soul). But recently, I scarfed because I did not want to be asked questions about my hair: the look of disbelief on friends' faces that I "dared to cut off the hair!!", then the eventual look of pity — or perhaps concern — in their eyes, questioning my reasons, my sanity.

In the weeks that followed, that feeling of regret that comes from making a bad decision would come and go. It felt like a slow heartbreak. I still did not know why I cut off much more than I should have, but I’d say to myself "it’s just hair" each time, in attempt to ease the feeling.

But it was not just hair.

I recently read an essay from one of my faves on subverting body terrorism [and self-terrorism] by celebrating black [kinky] hair.

It would take me a while to acknowledge that my hair had simply become the latest victim of my self-harm. And that everything I had felt in the aftermath of that Sunday afternoon was guilt. Guilt, the aftermath of self-harming. Guilt, that I had become familiar with in adolescence.

It was not that I lost hair, - for indeed, it really was just hair - it was that I had taken out my emotional frustrations on my own self. Again. This was what broke my heart.

My hair is starting to regrow in all of its tough, lengthy, jet-black glory.

Over the years, through bouts of severe depression and eating disorder, my hair has been an underdog, subtly teaching me lessons on resilience and self love. Now, it is teaching me Self Forgiveness.