When I was a small child my hair in all its nappy glory refused to grow. My grandmothers made it their mission to get it growing. Modear used every concoction circulated in our community. One such solution was Vaseline and mange treatment. I guess the thought was it made the hair on dogs regrow after suffering from mange so why not my hair. Oh it stunk. It didn’t smell, it stunk. My other grandmother, Muh, plaited my hair so tight it felt like she was pulling it out of my scalp. With all that my hair was never longer than shoulder length. The genetic make-up that I shared with 3 of my cousins gave them long, thick hair and I got the legs. I was jealous, Then.

After high school I wore it short and natural. I occasionally permed it. The last time I did, was THE last time.

After I got married my husband requested that I let my hair grow. I don’t know why because it was short when he met and married me. When I say short I mean 1 to 2 inches long. For me 3 inches was long hair. 😊 We made a deal. As long as he did not shave off his beard I would not cut my hair that short. About 25 years ago I decided we would try dreadlocks. I told him if this didn’t work, I was cutting my hair. He said okay. I kept it about shoulder length. Five years ago I didn’t get my annual spring time cut because the person who normally cut it was lying in a hospital bed. As my hair grew, my curiosity grew. How long can I let it get before I get tired of it. Here we are approaching the cut day. Why?, you ask. I dreamt I was being strangled. I awoke suddenly to find my hair wrapped tightly around my neck. My first thought, My hair is trying to kill me.

I never thought I would have hair this long. I never thought I would let it get this long. Cut day is drawing nigh.

It turned on me and it has got to go.