All of my hair and all of my selves...

Ashley Davis graduated from high school in 2017. Though I was never lucky enough to have her as a student in one of my classes, my colleagues in the English Department raved about her skills as a reader and writer. An accomplished poet and editor of the school literary magazine (BEMA), Ashley won the coveted Golden Pen Award in her senior year, which is given to the most accomplished writer in the school.

Ashley adds to her accomplishments in writing here. In beautiful and rich prose, she tells the story of her relationship with her hair, and in doing so offers up some direct and indirect advice about a common theme in the 650 universe: self-acceptance.

Ashley goes to UCLA, where she majors in English with a Creative Writing concentration and African-American Studies, and minors in Film. She is on UCLA’s Film and Festivals Staff, which devotes itself to screening free pre-release films for students and sometimes the general public. This year Ashley also started a network for other Black women writers at UCLA. At the moment, it’s a group chat where they share work, resources, and internship opportunities. “Los Angeles is a bit intimidating for a homebody like me,” she said, “but I’ve found a group of kindred souls who’ve helped make the territory a lot more inviting.”

Ashley’s post touches on a lot of topics, but ultimately it is about the importance of embracing your true self. “This is about self-acceptance and being kind to yourself,” she said. “I spent so much time beating myself up for things out of my control until I learned how to take risks to feel comfortable with myself. This post is basically my cautionary tale to anyone who worries about their worries and second guesses every action. I hope my post shows how the most tumultuous journey can lead to the happiest, healthiest version of yourself.”

- C.H.

It’s just hair.

I used to tell myself this constantly, but it never felt that way. My hair had history. It had life, my life, threaded through it like ribbons. And of course, despite praise and reassurances from family and friends, I hated it from an early age. I wanted flowing locks, not tight, untamable coils. My mom never gave up on it, though. She always insisted that my hair was beautiful. Sure, it was “fun,” maybe cute if you slicked it down, wrangled it into some puffs, and added some butterfly clips. Beautiful was a stretch.

For thirteen years, I never thought to chemically treat my hair to make it more manageable—until freshman year. I entered high school feeling anxious and alone because I knew no one. There weren’t many other students with hair like mine and, by extension, stories like mine. I was worried about making connections, looking pretty, and “pretty” didn’t include my type of hair. The thought of a brush going easy through my curls outweighed any fear of chemical burns. In the end, it wasn’t the chemicals I had to worry about: it was the loss of self.

I left the salon with straight hair. I expected my curls to return when they touched water, but instead, my hair hung limply around my face. Lifeless. I should’ve been excited; finally I could brush without pain and above all, look pretty. Instead, I felt a sense of dread. Without my curls, I wasn’t me. I wasn’t anything. The insecurities only increased. When I saw my barely wavy hair, I pulled it out. I would pluck my own plumage, molt like a phoenix and burn myself to ash until I felt like myself again. I began freshman year with a full head of curls and ended it with a three-inch bald spot down the middle of my head.

(My scalp itches in that very spot as I write this.)

If before I’d felt invisible, I felt all too visible now. My classmates playfully pointed out the ridge of short fuzz growing down the center of my head. I’d laugh it off, then pluck away the anxiety.

I wanted it to be “just hair.” I believed that as I plucked, I was removing its history, unraveling the threads, rendering it unimportant and ultimately disposable. It was cyclical torture: pluck to feel better, feel worse, then pluck some more. The entire time I scolded myself for my impulsiveness.

Two years later, my hair was full again, hanging long and limp to the middle of my back. Gradually it started to curl again, but not as tightly as before. I wore it down for the first time in years on the last day of school. Compliments abound, yet no hands reaching to touch. These loose, loose curls were lovely, not strange. Pretty, not unusual. And still this hair held on to its history, to the loneliness I wanted to forget. Hanging on to that hair meant hanging on to the me that wasn’t me anymore. For me to feel like myself again, it had to go, which is why one day that summer I went to the salon and chopped off thirteen inches of it. Holding those two chemically processed pigtails in my hands was like cradling the me who would unzip her skin and step out of it if she could.

This is the first time I’ve written all this down. I’ve kept this filed away under “Lessons Learned.” I learned to work harder to manage my hair before jumping to such severe measures. I learned not to fear how much power my hair had over me. It is just hair, but it also isn’t. This wasn’t a subjugation; this was a partnership. My hair hadn’t revolted; my body hadn’t betrayed me. I had betrayed myself by betraying my body. Sure, my hair is a hassle to maintain and is generally a reflection of my mental state (the drier the hair, the more stressed the Ash), but it’s also a way to track my growth from angsty teen to patient young adult. I hadn’t cut off a part of myself with the big chop; I had healed it. I don’t know what path I would have taken to self-acceptance if not this one, but I was sure that without my past, I wouldn’t get to experience a future as healthy as this one.

So even if the history is hard to swallow, if threads of memories tangle in my hair now and then, especially some I’d rather forget, I’ll leave them, because if I’m going to keep being kind to others, I’ll have to start with being kind to myself. All of my selves. Not just the patient young adult who has the strength to hold on, but the angsty teen who found the strength to let go.