Today was my last try at being beautiful.

I hope. What am I saying. I know its not my last try. I feel so upset I could cry. Cry so hard that there are no tears left. Cry so hard that I start crying tears of hot blood.

If you told me that if I pluck all that hair out of my head strand by strand, I would be granted a new head of beautiful hair.. I would do it. Then again I could instead get hair that is less manageable than the hair I have now... Yea that exist.

We were at the beach. Up until this point I had thought that my days of having an afro were long over with. I thought that my hair would dry curly. I didn't know. We were sitting in the hammock, facing each other. Looking at me, he asked why I had taken out the twist extensions I had before. The first time I stepped foot in Samara, Costa Rica, I had long extensions in the form of twist. The extensions were down to my butt. Even though they had been heavy and hard to deal with, I loved them because of all the attention I got. 

Everywhere I went here I would get admired for my hair.. To the point where I would have anxiety attacks and nightmares of anyone seeing me again without my extensions. One part of me felt more beautiful than I have ever felt in my life. Another part of me felt like I was living a lie and wondered if I would get this much attention without the extensions. I remember having to take them off one day because I had a woman redoing them for me. Looking in the mirror without my extensions I felt gross. When I had them back on I felt new again. I refused to go outside or be seen without the extensions. I felt torn every time someone asked me if it was my real hair. When he asked why I had taken them out I covered my wounded self confidence with a smile. I did the best I could to overcome how ugly I knew my hair looked in that moment with fake confidence. I felt that if I cried I would prove to the both of us that I was beautiful with the extensions… Something that am not anymore.. Or definitely was not at that moment.

 A week before that moment I had just started to accept my natural hair. While in Mexico I wore my hair out natural and received a lot of compliments. The compliments kept me from drowning in the familiar sea of ugliness, but only just above water. Each compliment about my natural hair to this day strikes me as fake. A “wow, your hair is so pretty.. I wish i had your hair” always translated emotionally as “look at this girl who has the confidence to go outside looking like that… I must say sommmething.” I returned to Costa Rica nervous to see everyone with my drastic change of look but also proud that I am finally letting myself be seen fully as myself. The look on his face as we sat in the hammock reminded me of why I never felt comfortable wearing my hair in its natural state. And why I probably never will again. I couldn't hold back how sad I was. Years of trauma of having ugly hair and therefore being ugly gathered in my throat. I couldn't cry and make this moment true. This cant be true. Fuck man. I let him see that I am ugly and now I will never be the same girl to him again. I started to think about when I decided to wet my hair that day. The moment that led to this aching moment. We were crossing the lake to get to the beach. Feeling so relaxed I put my head back into the water and began to float. As my hair dried after that moment, unbeknownst to me, it had dried into an afro. After that moment in the hammock, every encounter we had with other people felt painful. I felt as if everyone looked at me and treated me as if I was undeserving of any respect. I was most likely just stuck in my head. Sad and sensitive.

Josi took this picture of me that day. For a second I thought that I must not look so bad because he decided to take a picture. 

Today Josi had to go to work. I thought that since I had so much alone time ahead of me I should blow dry my hair so he can come back to a beautiful girl. I washed and blow dried my hair, then I put it in twist with gel hopeful that when I take the twist out my hair will be pretty again. Usually, to achieve stable curls from a twist out I need to sleep with the twist in. I didn't care. I had two hours left until he arrives and I was determined. Ill show him that I am actually pretty and make him forget what he saw. With one hour left to his arrival time I went through each twist with the dryer with a glimmer of hope that they will dry before he gets here so i can pull off the effortless look. As I delicately took the twist out I realized they were not all dry. Even after standing in front of the mirror for almost an hour drying them. I went through my whole head again, twist out, drying my hair. The end result was a puffy mess. I felt a familiar sense of despair. Frustrated, I thought of a way to release my pain. I remembered that my housemate said earlier that I should consider making my journals public. So I opened my laptop and here we are. I must add that it is one hour after the time he told me he would be here. He is still not here. This whole time I could've been letting my twist dry even more. Then again I have no idea what time he is going to arrive, and Id rather him see me with a puffy mess than with twist... I guess. Times like this I wish I had different hair.. But then again like I said, I could've been granted with worse, more difficult to manage hair. So i'll take that bit of gratitude and hold on to it.

In order to free myself from self hating thoughts I often think about why my hair is not accepted in society. The answer is burningly, stingily clear. Blackness is not accepted in society. My hair in its afro texture is undoubtedly the source of African genes, which should be something to be proud of. But its hard in a society that tells you that everything black is ugly. The hate I received throughout my life at my hair makes me think about what it would be like to have dark skin. I can't imagine going through the hate I received for my hair, but instead for my skin. My hair I can hide and change in order to be accepted, in order to feel beautiful. Imagine how strong I would be forced to be if it was my skin that was the source of hate.

Josi was not the first boyfriend to be let down by the state of my hair. I had an ex who asked me what happened to my hair one day when it was in its natural state. He didn't even want to look at me that night. For a while as I was young I wore a hood everywhere I went and refused to take it off. I remember walking around with anxiety thinking that at any moment someone could come up behind me and take to hood off.

When remembering how much anxiety I had over my hair at that young of an age I think about all the messages I must have gotten to make me fear showing my hair. I was certainly too young to give a shit about being pretty. I was still playing and dreaming and being present with the world. But besides from being free and playful, I was also fearful. I know that it is easy for you to tell me that my hair is beautiful, but it is not yet easy for me to feel confident about it to the point where I dont notice or care so much about the reactions of other people.