Locked

by Sonia Kinyua

“Black is beautiful.”

The mantra my mother repeated as she mercilessly detangled my locs with the fresh bottle of Just Me before school every day.

Twist. Part. Twist. Part.

My head jerked side to side while my mother slicked my hair into another ponytail. It was a style that all little Black girls knew; a style all little Black girls had—one this little Black girl hated. The pulling, tugging, brushing, combing. With each tug, I felt I lost a chunk of hair. The tightness of each braid, twist, and ponytail was never worth the kick-drumming in my head.

“Stop moving!” “Stop touching!” “Move your hand.”

The phrases echoed in my mind. I cringed as her calloused fingers took another strand to braid my hair. Tears welled but dared not fall, for fear of another mantra. The pools grew, making each blink harder than the last. The only barrier between my mother’s claws and the tears threatening to fall was the sleep that finally overtook me. My body numbed to the rhythm in my head—until the world faded into silence and darkness.

***

Kicking my feet on the edge of the three-foot pool, I peer over at my friends swimming along the water, doing tricks and flips like synchronized swimmers. Lexi’s long blonde hair trails behind her as she emerges from the sandy pool floor. Amber follows. As she comes up from the chlorinated water, her bangs stick to her sun-bathed skin. Behind her golden trail, my swim cap swells. I felt like a kid in those Airhead commercials. I retreated to a corner as my neon headcover, glowing like a sign, brought attention to my hidden locs.

The girls around me reminded me of Baywatch—their bikinis and golden locs flowing in the wind. All while I sat in my one-piece and cap, having the water lap around my wrinkled feet. My misery eased somewhat as I watched the fun, but I still felt overshadowed by the way their hair flowed through the water, shimmering in the sunlight as they came up. There were no golden locs following me, just a bright green swim cap, fastened tight around my head.

Finally, I ripped off my swim cap to let my twisted locs loose in the water. My mother’s hard work was destroyed in this wave of defiance. As I glided into the pool, the twists waded in the chlorinated water. My confidence was soon diminished as I came up to the surface, seeing that my once-long locs had shrunken to meet the hairs on my chin.

“How did your hair get so short?”

I crouched back, peering into the reflection of Lexi’s goggles as the water absorbed in my hair whispered insults into my ears. I shrunk in the way my long twists had. My friends descended upon my hair, invading, no, violating, my space, running their fingers in my now tangled wet locs. Suddenly, the spotlight was on me; stares intensified along with inquisitive glares as if none had ever seen such curls before.

Thereafter the others got over the fascination with my shriveled hair. As the sun set, my hair dried and tangled and we headed home.

I dreaded meeting my mother's wrath about her tainted masterpiece. I could already feel the pulling, washing, drying, greasing, combing, twisting, and complaining that was to come.

When I got home, the wrath took place as expected. Muttering complaints and curses, my mom detangled, washed, and styled my chlorinated twists back into their original state. The drummer came back with a new, kicking single pounding through my head. The scent of mint shampoo filled my nostrils, opening every pore of my scalp, stinging as it came close to my eyes.

My mother scratched at my scalp, unraveling the knots and kinks as I wailed in protest. She was not mad at me per se—just mad at the fact that she would spend the next few hours listening to my winces and screams for the nth time this month.

Barricaded in the basement, my mom turned on her favorite show to watch while she abused my crown: NCIS. She refused to put on programs that I liked because it distracted me, and she would be forced to jolt my head back and forth from the television. But I became fond of her show.

Magic transpired as my mother transformed my unruly locs. This was, in my opinion, the worst part—the part that made me want to go rogue and shave my head, freeing myself from my mother's claws.

Each swab of gel, each tug, each pull, each pop of the rubber band, and clatter of beads reminded me of how I would never have Rapunzel’s long, golden locs. It was a reminder that even Tiana, a princess I should have resonated with, had smoother, longer hair that could be styled more elegantly than my coarse curls. It was a reminder that the thick, coarse kinks in my hair would always resist any straightening; a reminder that one water drop would cause hell to break loose on my hair in the form of fuzzy curls. It reminded me how I would never be able to just wake up, brush my hair, and go to school, a reminder that I would never swim without that skin-tight neon cap that traps even the brightest of ideas inside. It was a reminder that no matter how much I try, no matter how many flat irons pass through my curls, no matter how much I oppress my curls into a silk press, no matter how much I try to convince myself, I would never be like the girls in my class. I would never be like the girls at the pool or the beach. I would forever be the nappy-headed Black girl.

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Sonia Kinyua is a sophomore at Stony Brook University pursuing degrees in Political Science and Journalism. She is passionate about writing, particularly investigative journalism, and her work is often shaped by her interest in social justice. Through her writing, she aspires to inspire young girls and exemplify Black excellence. Outside of academics, Sonia enjoys exploring various art forms, including drawing, music, and photography.