Here we are again, another Wednesday and more life having been lived. About two years ago, in the midst of a rather ugly breakup, I chopped off all my hair. My scalp was clean, and I began writing this blog. Maybe it’s only fitting that I continue to diagram the progression of my hair love journey. I loc’d my hair/allowed my hair to freely form a little more than a year ago. My current partner at the time parted my scalp and I started to discover more of just what my scalp does when I don’t police it’s movements and whereabouts. It’s been a rough journey. I’m learning to love my scalp, my hair, my self. I wrote a love letter to my scalp last week and then something funny happened.


I went to visit the eldest living elder in my family, my Great Aunt Cat, whose name I hold as my own. Aunt Cat is 90 years old, still precocious and silly with life inside of her small brown body despite her small stature. I cozied up in her warm house while we talked and she suddenly rose. “Aunt Cat, where you goin?” I said. “Stay right there, baby. I’ll be back.” Of course, I still do what my elders tell me and I sat perplexed but still glued to the couch. A few minutes later, I heard the tell-tale sign of her soft slippers against the floor as she shuffled back into the living room. In her small bony hands were a comb and hair grease. “You wanna grease my scalp.” She said it as a statement and not a question. “Yes, ma’am.” We chuckled together as she sat down in front of me on a folding chair. I carefully parted her hair to expose her scalp, her healthy and silvery hair bended to my will easily. It was almost like touching the scalp of a baby as she sighed “Mmm, that feels good. You got good hands like my sister had”. My grandmother, her older sister died years before I was born, but she always seems to remind me how much I remind her of my late grandmother despite never knowing her spirit in this plane. We chuckled together and I finished greasing and gently combed and massaged her scalp. In this act, I was reminded of my own childhood, how good it feels to still have my mothers hands in my scalp once in a while and how my mom is always having me come over to dye and braid her locs to this day.

Hair is our tradition, our glory and I deserve to learn how to love mine, just as you brown and black girls and womxn do yours.


Love Letter to My Scalp


My Grandmother

I hear she had lots of it

That it was inky black and she

Was one of the first to let it grow


That in the 30s it was always perfect

Never moving in its tight curls and waves

That when she had cancer and it fell out

She cried

But I didn’t know why.

No one told me.


My Great Aunt


She sat in front of me

Bones weary, old and weak

I greased her scalp and she was reminded


Back to a time when she was a little girl

With big bushy hair and she would try to sit still

Really she would but never could

And some woman exclaimed as she played outside

“OH WEE” Look at all that kinky hair

And a perm was all that mattered forever more


My Mother


I brushed her hair. It was silky smooth and I was obsessed. It was long and flowing, what I felt mine would never be.

It moved through the brush, not a snag in sight.

It was my mothers’ hair.

I watched her perm it for years but somehow prize my natural

It flowed down her back even when she stopped perming it. It cascaded in beautiful brown curls

It went from a beautiful fluff of curls to a rainfall

I loved it

I wonder if she did/does/do/will/won’t





The kink from my daddy and curls from my momma

The Five Different textures that made my hair “wild” and “untameable” but nowhere near mixed and silky

That hair that “Grew like bad weed”

Though long and thick and healthy

That put your fingers in and marvel at the softness

That died blonde by the sun and little brown girl laughter and ribbons

Back then

I had my beads and my bobos, and my long braided hair would swing and clinck and clang and all the white little girls would say “I want Cathy’s hair!”,

but they couldn’t have it

Moments were marked in performances where you were never good enough, never straight enough.


The bun that just didn’t stay and frizz that wouldn’t quit and baby hair never laid enough for any of the Gods

And I hated you but would never perm you.

I loved versatility too much

I still do.

The hair dyes

The many colors

The loads of fake hair

The heat damage

The pixie cut that helped me embrace my queer

Even while loving a straight man

Followed by a big chop to remind myself of my African scalp

Crying in the mirror and feeling ugly

Then loving just how good it felt to wake up and go

To love/hate/love my awkward head shape

Then the slow grow back into


Parted by my then partner and allowed to grow and flourish

That first year back in nyc

Natural oils and recovering product junkie

MY dad saying “Get that head done”

And me rebelliously putting wire of various colors

Cutting the wire out and letting it free form

Learning my texture

I love hands in my hair

Medicine hands

I’m grown and I still revert


Loving my scalp


I said it.

I love you.

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