Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

The intense smell of burnt hair mixed with Royal Crown hair dressing and some coconut concoction, I can’t quite name at the moment, all mingling together with the moans and wailing of Aretha, Mahalia, or Shirley Murdock (depending on the mood), transports me back to those Saturday mornings in the kitchen, sitting next to the stove, getting my “hair did.”

My own relationship with my hair was cultivated on these Saturday mornings and progressively matured through beads and knockers that almost took my eye out when I shook by head; braids that took a weeks worth of advil and a neck brace to live with; relaxers that when left in too long burnt me worse than I could imagine any STD ever could; and fake pony tails that flew off in the middle of cheerleading practice (winning!). With spoken commands of “Hold your ear, so I won’t burn you,” followed by burns on the knuckles of the hand that was protecting my ear, it’s no wonder that I now associate having my hair done with pay-for-play, light, S&M torture.

Nonetheless, for many black women this multi-hour process of washing, drying, and pressing is the backdrop of our hair history and at the foreground of our thoughts. In light of this convoluted bond with our hair (which is tantamount to a domestic abuse cycle of highs/lows and love/hate), I’m not even remotely surprised when the 2^nd or 3^rd question from other black women, in regards to my trip, is: “What are you going to do with your hair?!”

The answer is: I have no earthly idea.

I’ve thought about this long and hard and I would have to pack 1 perm kit, a blow dryer and a curling iron with appropriate electrical converter switches just to wear my hair straight. Unfortunately, my pack is only 65L and there’s no room in the inn for these types of luxuries. Plan B is that I wear my hair natural; but even then I would need 8 months worth of hair products (e.g. shampoo, conditioner, Miss Jessie’s Curly crème or Mixed Chicks leave in conditioner) just to feel like I have a chance of not looking like a yeti strolling around South East Asia. Staying out of every single photo taken (Plan C), is not an option and wearing a doo-rag or scarf  EVERYDAY like a modern day Harriet Tubman or Tupac (Plan D) just seems too severe. My mother suggested braids (Plan E), but 1 month in, 2 months in, then what? I’ll either roam the streets of Indonesia looking for African immigrants selling hair braiding services like they do on 125^th street in Harlem, or I finish my trip with one giant dreadlock (not winning!). I thought about cutting it off again, but I've been threatened with bodily harm by both my mother and husband; that's out of the running.

So, what’s a girl to do? No brave words of enlightenment with this post. Sorry. I’m looking for suggestions here!! Chime in.

My Suggested Reading List:

• Tenderheaded: A Comb-Bending Collection of Hair Stories by Pamela Johnson
• Hair Matters: Beauty, Power, and Black Women's Consciousness by Ingrid Banks 
• Hair Raising: Beauty, Culture, and African American Women by Noliwe M. Rooks
• Hair Story: Untangling the Roots of Black Hair in America by Ayana Byrd

Don't go into the light, Carol Ann...

I’ve been planning this trip for a little over a year now and I’m still amazed at the range of responses I receive from people when I tell them about my plans. I’ve gotten everything from, “That’s awesome. I wish I could come with you!” to “That’s crazy! What type of black person are you?!” Although most people are genuinely happy and excited about my trip, I’m still left confused by the really negative or fearful feedback I receive and the concerned calls advising me that this is a bad idea.

Concerned Friend 1: OMG! Aren’t you scared? Those people there are so poor; they’re going to rob you as soon as they see you!

Concerned Friend 2:  I wouldn’t go to that country if I were you. Those people don’t speak English so you know they aren’t educated.

Really?? So because they are poor, they naturally rob people and because they don’t speak English, they aren’t educated? Sigh…I could go on and on with examples of inconsistent social calculations, but the gist of this post is that I’ve entertained fear long enough. 

Well, not all fear…

I’m still scared of the usual: snakes, spiders, God, flying bugs that are attracted to dark meat…etc. I’m not looking in basements for the cause of that strange noise. I’m definitely not going outside to find out who the dog is barking at in the middle of the night and if Poltergeist move into my house, Carol Ann better have her ass right behind me because I’m deuces! These fears are of unknown phenomenon, so I understand having a healthy respect for the unknown. What irks me is fear that is driven by a jaded trust in humanity.

I believe that at the end of the day people experience the same basic human emotions, functions and concerns that I do. They all have to eat, sleep, and relieve themselves like I do. They fall in love, can be disappointed, and occasionally find things humorous like I do too. So at a very basic human level we have something in common. Does that mean that I’m going to immediately trust everyone I come across? Hell no, I’m still a New Yorker! It just means that I refuse to let fear of differences keep me at home.

Trust me... It Explodes!

- Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?

Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.

Or does it explode?

I know Langston wasn’t asking for my opinion, but my vote goes to the explode option. I think a dream deferred gets pissed off and then comes gunning for you like a rabid dog or a wayward crack head looking for a jones. I know this because I am a married, gainfully employed, thirty-three year old woman on the verge of quitting my job in the middle of the worst recession of my lifetime, just to pursue a dream. To make matters more interesting, I’m leaving behind my supportive and perfectly good husband, (who is cute enough to find another wife) all in the name of a dream. Further, I’m cleaning out my 401K to do it!

Before you ask, let me intervene with a few answers… No, I’m not dying. No, I’m not getting a divorce and running away with a Spanish bullfighter named Alejandro or Diego. And last but not least, no, I’m not trying to escape the threat of imprisonment…. Not technically. Although, it’s not the jail bars and tossing salads kind of prison most think of, I’m definitely running from an imprisonment of my own making: my imagination.

When I was kid I use to imagine a life of constant travel and exploration; new experiences, smells, challenges and languages to conquer. Of course, in my imagination, everything was played out on the set of Sweet Valley High, but I digress. The point I’m trying to make is that I’ve been making bucket lists since before I can remember and international travel has always been at the top.

Now that I’m an adult, my left brain recognizes that it’s not always deemed “appropriate” to indulge my imagination. As a matter of fact, you could end up being committed for it! Unfortunately, no one told that to a dream deferred. It’s pissed and the detonation of its anger has manifested in nearly every area of my life!  It has hounded me in my sleep, teased me in the confines of my cubicle and spit in my face with every book, blog or song about someone else conquering their dream.  

Thankfully, I have a tendency to be inappropriate at times and this is such a time…

This summer, I am setting off on solo, ‘round the world (RTW), backpacking trip to and through thirty-three countries. I’m knocking things off that never ending bucket list and finding out what happens in a dream preferred. This blog is my way of sharing my experience and thoughts with my family and friends and a method for reaching out to other like minded individuals.

With that said…..

            Welcome to the ride.