Growing roots

Introducing: Patsy Antoine, who is a writer, editor and literary consultant. She has had creative fiction and non-fiction published in Best magazine, Sexual Attraction Revealed and in the forthcoming Tell Tales 4 – Global Village. Her short story 'Jah Goat Finds Liberty' was longlisted in the 2005 Bridport prize.

Growing roots

I hated my roots. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I did. Hated the kinky life they had of their own; the thick ‘unmanageable’ new growth; the bushy clumps that contrasted so dramatically with its straighter ends. You see straight was in. Nappy heads were out. So I’d willingly grown into despising my kink and convinced myself I was acceptable only if I mirrored the ‘dream’ – billboard images that left no room for tightly wound curls or afro textures.

I was already some way along my journey to the ‘straight side’. But maintaining it wasn’t easy. The hot comb had singed my ears. The relaxers burnt my scalp. But it was a small price to pay when my hair, pressed or chemically straightened, fell in thick waves around my face. When it settled around my shoulders and moved fluidly like long grass in the wind.

But then came the steam treatments, and six-weekly visits to stamp out those ‘unsavoury’ roots. “Don’t tong too regularly”, “Avoid too much heat”. But with a thick and luscious head of straight hair I was invincible. What could a little heat do? So, I tonged and blow dried, pressed and hot combed. Avoid heat? Fat chance. It was too much to ask of anyone, much less me whose tomboy tendencies could barely manage the extra care needed to maintain my ‘do’.

Inevitably, it wasn’t long before those gloriously straight tresses became wispy and weak, before the dream became a nightmare and my visits to the hairdresser became few and far between. So, I cut my hair short. Boy short. Cut out the relaxers, the leisure curl perm. Suddenly, roots that were unmanageable and unsightly became healthy and shiny.

Suddenly, I realised that my hair looked unhealthy, not because of my roots, but because of its chemically weakened ends. I was a ‘natural’ and as my hair grew back I embraced my ’fro, two-strand twists, single plaits and canerows. For the first time in my adult life, I enjoyed my hair. No, I lie. I loved my hair.

I didn’t realise it at the time, but I was already contemplating locks. It starts so deep within, you’re unaware it’s there. It simmers gently on a low heat; splattering you with blobs of comprehension until eventually it bubbles to the surface and overtakes you. I started mine with a head full of china bumps. Leaving the salon that day I have never felt so powerful.

Nine years on I understand that my hair is so much more than decorative; it is the very thing that connects me to who I am. By embracing my roots I grow another set of roots into my history, my culture. I now realise that my hair carries the energy of my ancestors, it curls with life and vibrancy and its kink reflects the spring in my contented step.