What's the most beloved lie you believed as a child?
zhaimo
Posts: 166
Dear sisters:
Remember those "lies" wrapped in tenderness from your childhood? The one that sticks most deeply in my memory is about hair.
Every Saturday night, I sat cross-legged on the carpet between my mother's legs, her rough yet gentle fingertips caressing my hair, the scent of coconut oil filling the air. "Just comb it through," she'd always say, and I'd grit my teeth, enduring the sting of each curl being tugged at by the brush. But what I truly longed for was when, after combing, she'd cup my cheek, gaze at our cuddled figures in the mirror, and say, "You know what? Inside every curl of your hair is an angel's fingerprint."
I believed it with all my heart. In those meticulously braided cornrows, beneath every pinned curl, I was certain an angel had truly touched me. When the girls at school flaunted their long, silky locks, I would lift my head with pride—mine bore the mark of angels, an intricate map designed by God himself.
Until one day, on the playground, I heard a boy point at my braids and taunt them, "Like a bunch of springs." When I got home that day, I asked my mother for the first time, "Do angels really like my hair? Then why do others say it's weird?"
My mother put down her comb and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes, deep as the night, reflected in the mirror: "Listen, child—when angels touch a baby's hair, they know what that child will face. So they didn't give you light, straight hair, but rather a crown of curls, strong enough to bear the weight of the world."
Looking back on that conversation now, I understand its profound meaning. It's like the freedom those glueless wigs and half wig offer us—smooth, long hair one day, naturally curly the next. This isn't a denial of our natural hair, but a declaration: As Black women, we have the right to choose how we face the world. This freedom allows us to protect our natural hair while changing our moods like a battle suit.
These beautiful "lies" were never about escape, but about embracing. Our grandmothers knew their granddaughters would navigate a world that wasn't always kind to Black skin and curly hair. So they spun these stories. Now, we have more choices—whether it's carefully groomed natural hair or the freedom to style it—to write our own stories.
Today, when I stand in the mirror, watching my natural curls blossom into a crown in the morning light, or try a new hairstyle, I finally understand the deepest truth of that "lie": Our beauty never needs to conform to others' standards; our strength comes precisely from our freedom to choose.
Sisters, we inherit not only these stories, but also the resilience and wisdom of their storytellers. The next time you style your hair, remember—you're not touching a simple curl or strand, but a story of resistance written with love.
The people living in our hair are not angels, but ourselves, who are more powerful than angels. And every hairstyle we choose tells the same truth: our beauty is defined by ourselves.
Remember those "lies" wrapped in tenderness from your childhood? The one that sticks most deeply in my memory is about hair.
Every Saturday night, I sat cross-legged on the carpet between my mother's legs, her rough yet gentle fingertips caressing my hair, the scent of coconut oil filling the air. "Just comb it through," she'd always say, and I'd grit my teeth, enduring the sting of each curl being tugged at by the brush. But what I truly longed for was when, after combing, she'd cup my cheek, gaze at our cuddled figures in the mirror, and say, "You know what? Inside every curl of your hair is an angel's fingerprint."
I believed it with all my heart. In those meticulously braided cornrows, beneath every pinned curl, I was certain an angel had truly touched me. When the girls at school flaunted their long, silky locks, I would lift my head with pride—mine bore the mark of angels, an intricate map designed by God himself.
Until one day, on the playground, I heard a boy point at my braids and taunt them, "Like a bunch of springs." When I got home that day, I asked my mother for the first time, "Do angels really like my hair? Then why do others say it's weird?"
My mother put down her comb and placed her hands on my shoulders. Her eyes, deep as the night, reflected in the mirror: "Listen, child—when angels touch a baby's hair, they know what that child will face. So they didn't give you light, straight hair, but rather a crown of curls, strong enough to bear the weight of the world."
Looking back on that conversation now, I understand its profound meaning. It's like the freedom those glueless wigs and half wig offer us—smooth, long hair one day, naturally curly the next. This isn't a denial of our natural hair, but a declaration: As Black women, we have the right to choose how we face the world. This freedom allows us to protect our natural hair while changing our moods like a battle suit.
These beautiful "lies" were never about escape, but about embracing. Our grandmothers knew their granddaughters would navigate a world that wasn't always kind to Black skin and curly hair. So they spun these stories. Now, we have more choices—whether it's carefully groomed natural hair or the freedom to style it—to write our own stories.
Today, when I stand in the mirror, watching my natural curls blossom into a crown in the morning light, or try a new hairstyle, I finally understand the deepest truth of that "lie": Our beauty never needs to conform to others' standards; our strength comes precisely from our freedom to choose.
Sisters, we inherit not only these stories, but also the resilience and wisdom of their storytellers. The next time you style your hair, remember—you're not touching a simple curl or strand, but a story of resistance written with love.
The people living in our hair are not angels, but ourselves, who are more powerful than angels. And every hairstyle we choose tells the same truth: our beauty is defined by ourselves.
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