From ancient times to the new millennium there has always been a great deal of power, mystique and controversy over hair. As a young black woman I embrace the rich legacy of hair that we have as a part of our culture. We have rocked many a hairstyle throughout the decades and continue to find new ways to express ourselves through our hair.   My hairstory began at the tender age of two when my mother gave me my first perm in the kitchen of our tiny apartment. Eager to mimic the styles of my black only Barbie’s I wore side ponytails and pigtails with colorful berets, twists and plats and even my first Chinese bang that my mother cut for my first day of kindergarten.

When I entered college I encountered an entirely new hair-universe, a place where girls didn’t just have relaxed tresses, but there were afros, tree braids, twists, micros, mohawks, weaves and locks. As I spent time in the dormitory creating relationships with my sisters I noticed how we all had a hairstory. Each of us had a beauty routine carefully practiced and created just for our hair that made us unique. As common between sisters we often helped to style and maintain one another’s hair. I have vivid memories of helping my roommate style her braids or the two of us dying our best-friend’s locks in the bathroom sink. We each embraced the hair God gave us and managed to find interesting, original and uniquely beautiful ways to express ourselves.

 As I find myself on the brink of a new year of life and another digit older, I decided to do something I’ve always wanted to do but have been afraid to try. Last week I went to the hair salon and traded my shoulder length mane for a short cropped funky hair cut. I never thought of my beauty being tied to my hair, but as I sat in the chair and watched piece after piece fall to the salon floor I experienced a state of panic. I wrestled with my anxious emotions and even after the cut was over I was so afraid to see my new look that I dodged my own reflection in the mirrors along the wall.

 It wasn’t until I reached home and my mother’s eyes appraised me that I felt a sense of excitement replacing a feeling of dread. “You are so beautiful” she said to me. I shrugged off her enthusiastic assertion; my mother has always been my inner beauty coach cheering me along on the sidelines of my life. Yet she kept saying it over and over and finally I was curious to see for myself. I strode to the nearest bathroom to take stock of my new look and I was amazed at what I saw. When I expected to see the expression of a confused, messy, chaotic girl in the mirror all I found was the face of a vibrant, confident young woman. It was while standing there smiling to myself that I realized that over the years just like any part of history, my hairstory would have new additions. Some styles would be better than others, but I would still be me. My hair will always be there serving as a visual timeline for the various periods of my life. Through struggles and triumphs my crown of tresses will be my way to express outwardly the inner growth of a woman. So see there’s a lot of beauty in every hairstory.