My Hair’s Life Story – A 4C Tale

I have type 4C hair. That means the individual strands of my hair curl tightly in on themselves into coils, not dissimilar to the tiny spring you’ll find in a pen if you’re bored enough to dismantle it. 

Type 4C hair is not often celebrated. It doesn’t flow. It doesn’t bounce. You can’t run your fingers through it with ease and confidence. Thank God for the Natural Hair Community, who over the recent years, has changed the stigma too often connected with 4C hair. 

“Bad hair.”

“Nappy hair.”

“Dry hair.”

No. 

My hair is full, and luscious, and curly. It is big and fluffy. And I love it to the moon and beyond. Anyone’s hair can be dry. And the only “bad hair” is damaged hair. So why are these terms so often connected with Type 4 hair?

My hair and I have had a long history together. The relationship I’ve shared with my crown may not play out as one might expect.

Despite the popularity of relaxers throughout the 90s, which is used to chemically and permanently straighten curly hair, I wore my natural hair from birth to age fourteen. I knew what my hair texture was like, but I didn’t care. I didn’t think twice about my hair. It was there, and that was the extent of my concern. I didn’t care about what it looked like, I didn’t care about what it felt like, I didn’t even dislike it. I never thought about it.

I remember sitting uncomfortably as my mother would twist my hair for what felt like hours. I’d sit on the hard floor as she pulled at, combed through, and twisted or braided my hair, adding in the signature Ultra Sheen hair grease to make it extra shiny. I hated getting my hair done. I’d cry, and whine, and squirm until the whole ordeal was over. Intellectually, I knew that my mother was making my hair look nice. But for the life of me, I couldn’t bring myself to give any thought to it. I counted the seconds until it was over so that I could run off and be free to do whatever it was little kids do.

Growing up on the Island of St. Thomas, I was drawn to the trees and the bushes, climbing and exploring on imaginary expeditions. Although I wouldn’t say that I was a tomboy, as I was never interested in sports or physical play, I also didn’t care about looking pretty or feeling girly. I was a loner, trapped by my own imagination, and to say that I was an oblivious child would be an understatement.

I remember certain statements that were said about my hair, which should have been hurtful. But they weren’t. They went right over my head. But just because I didn’t notice it at the time, doesn’t make them any less toxic. 

“Tamar has the best hair in this family.”

My father said that to my older sister, Tamar, and me when I was 7 or 8 years old. We were having a long conversation, which I don’t even remember, but was obviously about hair. He said the line about my sister’s hair to emphasize the point of how good it was, and I burst out in genuine laughter. Something about how intensely he said the words, with the determined look on his face, and passionate hand gestures, was so funny to me in my childish mind. 

Never mind that the statement was said in direct comparison to my hair, perhaps implanting the message that her hair was better than mine. Of course it was. Tamar’s 4A / 4B hair was longer than mine. It was straighter, fuller, and more glossy. 

I envied my sister in a lot of things growing up, but her hair was not one of them. Even though I knew her hair was “better.” I just didn’t care. I cared so little that I didn’t know that I didn’t care. It’s bizarre to think about how little impact my hair had on my thoughts and self image as a child. 

It wasn’t until middle school, at around the age of 12 and 13, that I started to notice. I was in Memphis Tennessee by this point. Everyone had straight hair. And I didn’t. All the black girls, white girls, all the girls had straight and free flowing hair. Meanwhile, my signature twists loved to stick out in all directions. My hair is different. I realized. And I accepted it. And I didn’t like it. But I never asked why. Why didn’t I ask why? Oh, the things I could have learned.

I remember once, when I was 13, my mother twisted my hair into delicious, lovely locks. They reached down to the tops of my shoulders. When she was done, I looked in the mirror and thought “Wow. My hair is really pretty!” Perhaps for the first time in my life. I smiled from ear to ear and thought “Why had I thought my hair was bad all this time? It’s so pretty!” I beamed for the rest of the day, bouncing my curls back and forth, happy that I actually had beautiful hair. 

And then I went to bed that night. The next morning when I woke up, my hair was shriveled. It had shrunk all the way up to my ears. It looked frizzy, and matted, and twists stuck out in random directions, giving me a prickly, cactus look.

“Oh. So that’s why. My hair actually isn’t pretty.” My hair stayed this way for perhaps two weeks, untouched and frizzier by the day, until it was washed and twisted again by my mother. It may have taken me a long time, 13 years, but I finally realized the unique feature that my hair had. The ability to shrink upon itself, and deceptively retract length such that it looks much, much shorter than it actually is. All the while getting frizzier, dryer, and more brittle day by day, until it is redone to look beautiful again, for exactly one day.

I went back to not caring about my hair after this ordeal. But this time. I was aware. And I knew that I didn’t like it.

In the summer that I was 14, my family went on a trip to see my extended family in New York as we often did every summer. We always stayed in my aunt’s house, and I loved hanging out and catching up with all my cousins. My cousin Celica has long, flowing, curly hair, which obeyed the laws of gravity, unlike my hair. I loved to play with it, and brush it when she would let me. 

That summer, my mother and my Tia Gloria decided that it was time my sister and I would get our hair permed for the first time. When they told us this, and explained to me what it meant, I was excited! Straight hair? YES! So my hair will be long and flowing like my cousin, Celica’s? It will be just like the hair like the other girls at school? I couldn’t wait!

I sat on a dining room chair in the middle of the kitchen as my aunt put on rubber gloves and applied the white, creamy chemical that would burn my hair into straight submission. I’m not really a fussy person. So when something is bothering me, whether or not I should, I’ve learned to either deal with the discomfort, or handle the situation myself. So I felt that the relaxer was burning, but I was briefed on the process, and knew that a burning sensation was expected. After all, my hair needed to be tamed. So it would likely take a while. 

“Heather, if it starts to burn, let me know so I can wash it out.” My aunt said this matter-a-factly. 

“Oh. Yeah, it’s burning.”

“It’s burning?”

“Yeah, it stings a little.” I was completely unphased. Yeah, it burned, but it didn’t hurt that much. Meanwhile, Tia Gloria seemed to get a mini panic attack.

“That’s the burning I’m talking about! Hurry up! Get to the sink, let me wash it out!”

I bent over the sink and let Tia Gloria wash out the chemical multiple times. Then I was given special shampoo and sent to the shower to wash my hair again. 

My hair felt so nice! In the shower, I ran my fingers through it with no resistance! In its natural state, my hair would have snagged onto my fingers, coiled around them, commanding that they remain stationary. Not anymore! I finally had that free flowing hair that all the girls in school were rocking.

The next day, I wore out my permed hair with surreal confidence. My mother knew just how to style it. She had been perming her own hair for several years now, after all. My whole family complimented my hair, and even the members at the church I attended that Saturday told me how pretty it was. I shaked my head and let my hair flow in the breeze like a feather.

And then it was time to go to bed that night.

“Now that your hair is permed, you’ll have to wrap it in a tuvi tuvi.”

Tuvi tuvi?

To this day, I don’t know if “tuvi tuvi” is a hispanic term, or just a term my family came up with, but basically, the tuvi tuvi is a means of wrapping my hair around my head and securing it with a scarf while I sleep, so that the next morning, my hair could be free flowing and feathery once again. If I failed to wrap, my hair could become stiff and / or frizzy.  

I complied the first night. And then the next morning, I realized that I was now bound to do the tuvi tuvi every night for the rest of my life. 

I hated it.

My sister seemed to quickly adopt the practice, but I just couldn’t stand having to do the tuvi tuvi every night before bed. It took so much time! And it was difficult to master! And it made my roots hurt where I had to part my hair for the wrap to work. Even if I parted it in a new area each time, it would just hurt again when I woke up the next morning. Many nights, I failed to do the tuvi tivi. I just couldn’t be bothered.

And the other quick realization that was bestowed upon me was this: Permed hair is not to be wetted. 

I didn’t think there was any big deal to wetting my newly permed hair when I took a shower the day after my first tuvi tuvi. And while I didn’t dunk my whole head under water, I did experience a lot of steam, and the ends of my hair were completely soaked.

I quickly found out that the frizz monster I had created in the shower was not simply going to air dry into the silky smooth strands that I wore the day prior. On the contrary. The dryer it got, the worse it became. I kept pressing my hair down against my face, and they’d defy my pleas and pop back out like the ears of a poodle. 

My hair had to be washed and blowdried for it to again retain it’s prior sheen. Alright. Noted. Showers and rain are my hair’s worst enemy. I may have skimped out on the tuvi tuvi, but never again did I step into a shower without a scarf unless it was wash day.

The excitement over my permed hair faded ridiculously quickly, and I went back to not caring about my hair. I didn’t miss my old hair. I figured that perming had to happen at some point, so this was my life now. 

At the very least, my hair was easier to manage, so my mother didn’t have to do it as often. I didn’t particularly care about styling it. As long as it looked straight and un-frizzy, I was satisfied. I’d often wear it down with a side part, or a middle part, and call it a day.

I remember in the early days of my perm, I asked my dad what he thought of my hair. He looked my hair over, and evaluated his words carefully, as he often does. “Yeah, I knew something needed to be done about your hair. Tamar’s hair always looked nice, but your hair would shrivel up and stick out. It looked dry. But your hair is nice.” 

This is another comment that should have been hurtful. But I agreed with him and it didn’t phase me. My hair likely was mistreated all throughout my childhood, as the knowledge on how to care for 4C hair usually boiled down to “perm it into submission” in the 90s. We didn’t know that 4C hair required daily moisture and care, so of course it dried out and shriveled up when left alone for two weeks.  

I also always appreciated my dad for his unapologetic, brutal honesty, so I knew he wouldn’t sugar coat it when I asked him about my hair just because I’m his daughter. Some of that trait may have rubbed off on me, and I may need to check myself. 

From some of the conversations that I’ve had with my dad since then, I think he realizes that some of his words were problematic, and he fully embraces the natural hair movement today. But I’ve never outright confronted him on his comments. I’ll do that soon.

By the time I was a sophomore in high school at age fifteen, I had a pretty decent routine for dealing with my hair. Wrap it sometimes, never let it get wet, comb it until it’s straight, side part, looks good. That year, my band was going on a band road trip to San Antonio Texas. I played the bassoon, for those of you who are curious. 

In the days before my trip, my mother offered to braid extensions into my hair for the first time. My mother is an incredibly creative woman, who can learn to do anything she sets her mind to. She taught herself to braid extensions, and even though it took days to complete, and I was given flashbacks of the times I curled at my mother’s feet as she twisted my hair as a child, when I saw the completed product, I fell in love with it immediately!

I loved extensions! I just called them braids. My braids were so long! They reached all the way down my back! I could put it in a ponytail, or a bun, or just let it fall all over my face as I often did. My extensions made my hair care while on my band trip so easy! No tuvi tuvi required! No fear of water! I thought they looked so pretty on me, and for the first time in what felt like ever, I really loved my hair!

Now thinking back to it, it’s a shame that it took a fake, and possibly unethically sourced, hair attachment for me to finally adore how I looked with my hair. I’ve come a long way since those days. 

By far, the extensions were my favorite way to wear my hair, but as you can imagine, even they had their issues. My braids looked really nice, but they tangled easily. I certainly couldn’t run my fingers through it, and they would painfully snag onto zippers, or other hooks and edges on frequent occasions. 

But more importantly, whenever it was time to take my braids out and re-perm my hair, the amount of hair that would fall out of my head due to massive shedding was scary! I remember detangling my freshly washed hair with a wide toothed comb, and pulling out a mound of hair in my hands. It was such a large clump! “Why am I losing my hair?” I whispered in a panic. But when I checked my hair in the mirror, I didn’t see any bald spots. My hair looked full and continuous. “Okay. So my hair can’t shed wile it’s in braids, so it sheds all at once when I take them out. I guess this is normal?”

It was still a harrowing feeling to pull out mounds of hair upon removing braids. But I got used to it. This is how it was for the next four years. My hair was permed, and perhaps twice a year, I would get extensions, keep them for a month or two, then remove them, along with a mountain of my hair. It sounds scary, but my hair apparently grew a lot to compensate for how much I was losing.

And then something happened. For the past year before I turned 20, my sister had been going natural. She told me and everyone what she was doing, but I didn’t think much of it. Silently, my sister stopped perming her hair. And as the months passed by, her natural hair grew out longer and longer. 

Not that I noticed it much. Her natural hair had always been longer and straighter than mine. If she wore her hair in a ponytail, she could easily hide that her hair was half natural at the top, and half permed at the bottom. 

But the difference was more drastic and obvious when her hair was wet. Once she showed me her soaking wet hair. Her natural hair was thick and full, and then it starkly changed to straight, heavy strands about a third of the volume of her natural hair. She pointed them out to me humorously, and I laughed hysterically as expected. 

“Yep, that’s the struggle I deal with these days.” She’d sigh.

So the date was around May of 2010. I was 19, and I got my hair permed as I usually did after taking my braids out. There was nothing special or different about this perm, except that I remember admiring my hair afterwards. “It’s so nice and free flowing! I can run my fingers through it and my hair can breathe again! Braids are nice, but it’s great to take them out and get a new perm!”

Same story, different day. Fast forward to October of that year, and my sister finally decided it was time to do the “Big chop.”

The Big Chop

When natural hair is permed, it is a permanent procedure. The hair is chemically changed, never to return to its previous state. That’s why, going back to natural requires a long process of growing out the hair which has never been permed over a series of months. The “Big chop” refers to the moment that all the previously permed hair is completely cut off. Sometimes, several inches of hair is cut off at a time, hence the name.

Some people don’t have any hair left when they do a big chop. They start growing their hair out from bald, or a very fine cut. Others grow out their hair for a long time, like my sister did, so that when they do the big chop, they’ll already have a few (or several) inches of natural hair to work with.

When Tamar did her big chop, her natural hair was already so long! Our mom and everyone praised her for it, and I thought it looked really neat. Really, it didn’t look much different than how she had been wearing her hair already. But her hair was shorter, and I understood the significance of her cutting off her perm.

I wish I could tell you that that’s when I started thinking deeply about my hair. That I questioned everything my hair had gone through my entire life, and wondered why I was trying so hard to make my hair look like anything except how it was meant to look like.

I wish I could say I went natural as an intentional journey of self love and identification. To change society and unapologetically wear my God-given crown as nature intended.

Truthfully, I had spent my whole life regarding my hair as an afterthought. So when my sister did the big chop and went natural, I thought, “Meh, I’ll do that too. Why not?”

The perm I got in May of 2010 was the last perm I have ever, and will ever get. That’s likely the reason I remember it so well.

For the following year, I wore extensions after extensions, non stop. I would keep them in for two months, and then over the weekend and through nonstop braiding, I’d take them out, wash my hair, and have my mom put a new set right back in. It’s a wonder she agreed to do all that for an entire year. My hair grew slowly, but surely. And in contrast to my sister, my natural hair couldn’t be any more different than my permed hair. It was thick and felt dry. No matter how much I washed it, it just seemed thirsty constantly.

No matter. I didn’t pay much attention to it. That’s what the extensions were for. I really didn’t have a game plan for the future, nor did I worry about it. I find I take this approach with a lot of aspects in my life.

Twelve months passed by, and then in October of 2011, when I was 20 years old, my mother pointed out “Heather, your natural hair is long! Don’t you think it’s time you cut off all the perm?”

I headed to the mirror with a ruler and stretched out my natural hair, holding it right where the perm started, to get a good length check. Six inches of new growth!

Nice. 

Sure let’s cut it off.

Today.

This was a big moment in my life. You’d think that it would have been met with more enthusiasm or emotion.

I washed my hair, then let my mother snip off the perm with a sharp scissors while it was soaking wet. My mom and Tamar were so excited when they saw how long my hair was. My mom then applied a gel so that my hair looked like a shiny, crinkly fro.

I looked in the mirror. I didn’t particularly like it, but I also didn’t particularly care. Eh, it was kind of cute, I guess. This is my life now. Cool.

So I put on a nice dress and went to church that day with my hair all chopped off. 

Oh, if only I could have braced myself for the amount of attention and compliments I was about to receive.

“Heather! Your hair is beautiful! We got another one! I love how all our young ladies are joining the natural hair movement!”

These words were spoken by an older woman I highly respected in the church. I couldn’t deny how good they made me feel, and I smiled from ear to ear all day.

It was the interactions at my church that made me realize, “Oh wow. This is a big deal, isn’t it?”

My hair is natural now. I need to own it.

In the weeks following my Big Chop, I was happy to not need to wrap my hair before going to bed anymore, but I still had no idea how to care for my hair. My mother would help me out with hair styles, mainly twists and curly fros, but as I was becoming more independent, I didn’t want her doing my hair all the time. 

There was one friday afternoon when I was sitting at home, watching TV, and my hair was patted down to my head in a nappy and matted mound. In the back of my mind, I knew that I would have to get my hair ready for church the next day. 

I could wash it and grease it, and wear it in an afro. I could ask my mother for help. I didn’t feel like doing any of those things. In my idle debate, I reached up, stretched out a corner of my hair, and began to two-strand twist it. It was an absent minded action, similar to curling a strand of hair around one’s finger. A minute later, I looked over to examine my creation: a tight, curly twist that folded in on itself. “That’s kind of cute. There’s no way I’ll be able to do that on my whole head.”

Challenge accepted.

I continued watching the TV show as I proceeded to twist my whole hair, one small section at a time. It probably took about an hour overall. When I got done, I looked at myself in the mirror, thinking “I can’t believe I just did that.” 

That’s when I accepted that this was doable. I can care for my own hair. Little by little, I researched more styles. Tried them out. Learned about moisturizing. 4C hair dries out quickly. It’s different. Not inferior. I watched so many YouTube videos and I got into the hang of doing my own hair, and loving it.

No more fear of water! I can dance in the rain! I love it! My hair loves it!

Through all my research, I found so many stories of black girls and the hate and ridicule they received for their hair. “Your hair is unprofessional. Oh, you didn’t get the good hair. Just wear braids or a wig.” Girls who wore perms for so long that they didn’t even know what their hair texture was. 

I never had any particular hate for my hair, but the love for my hair grew gradually. Especially after hearing all the stories of things that had been going on for years, while I obliviously ignored and disregarded any acknowledgement towards my hair. 

Not anymore.

I love my hair! I love how it defies gravity! It’s so fluffy! I love caring for it! I’ve been doing my own hair for 12 years now, and I am engrossed in my natural hair products, from satin bonnets, to eucalyptus pillow sheets, to expensive extra virgin coconut oil used exclusively for my hair. 

There wasn’t one defining moment that made me say “Enough is enough!”, causing me to change my mentality towards my hair. No, it’s the gradual moments speckled throughout my life that made me, and my hair, who I am today. 

When I was 24, having been natural again for 4 years at that point, my dad and I took a vacation to St. Thomas, which was the first time I had been back to the island after leaving it at age 8. After a day at the beach, we were heading into a grocery store to pick up a few items for the night. My hair was glistening, still wet from the sea, scrunched tight in a crinkly, coily fro. I thought it was so cool how I could get my hair soaking wet and still have it look cute and stylish.

I looked up at my dad and asked him, “How’s my hair?” I smirked and expected a humorous response; something along the lines of having beach hair at a grocery store.

But he smiled, ran his fingers over my hair and said “Yeah, it’s beautiful! It’s one of those styles that everyone is coming out and celebrating these days. A few years ago, styles like this wouldn’t have been accepted in society. But this is your natural hair and I’m proud that you’re wearing it!”

I smiled widely and giggled in glee at his comment. But as sad as it may be, his words were true. It’s only been recently that black girls, young and old, have the confidence and acceptance to wear their natural twisty, crinkly hair out and about without ridicule. We’ve come a long way, yet the journey is far from over.

I think back, and I can’t believe how nonchalant I used to be about my hair. I can’t believe how little I thought or cared about it.

But my hair is beautiful. And your hair is beautiful. There are so many different hair textures, and many different ways to care for them. Have you given your hair some love lately? Look in the mirror, and tell your hair, it’s beautiful. Whether it’s curly or straight, short or long, dreadlocked or bald. You are beautiful!

Thank you for listening to my tale. I hope it made you smile. Stay safe until next time!