A F R O C H I C K M A G A Z I N E | Vol. 1 (December 2013) | Page 4

AFROCHICK|MAGAZINE4

To Get Back Home,
Get Back Natural
Guest Editor @ Large | By delmetria l. millener
It was the mid-80s when my mother started getting the hairstyle,
“Jheri Curls.” I was about 11-years old. Louisiana natives, we had
to travel to Houston, Texas, two times a year for her to get this “hair
do.” I was so envious. In my mind, it was a pretty big deal to have
to travel out of town to get your hair done. I thought it was abou t prestige. I didn’t know that the only
reason we traveled so far was because no one in my area knew how to “do a curl.” Often, I would beg my
mother to let me get a “curl” too. Her answer was always no.
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At age 13, at the end of my 7 grade year, the long-awaited permission I needed from my mom to also
get a Curl was granted. Finally! I would have hair like them—the mulatto girls at my school who had “good
hair.” And just in time for high school! After all, I’m from Louisiana. Aren’t all Louisianans supposed to
have good hair and be labeled Creole or Cajun? Besides, my curl was not “juicy” like most. I only put a
small amount of “curl juice” so that it wouldn’t be dry, but it would look like my own “good hair.” Even
better, I didn’t sleep with my curl bag on, but miraculously, my sheets did not get oily. I would have sleep
over’s at my white friends’ houses with no problem! You couldn’t get more natural than that.
By the time I was 17 and had moved to Texas, I was getting my hair, as it’s said, “Fried, dyed and laid to
the side.” I had begun getting perms—or straightening my hair with a chemical relaxer. I was the Toni
Braxton remix when it came to my hair. I permed so often, people started to believe I had more “Indian
blood” in me than I do. Don’t we all? I would get questions like, “What are you mixed with?” To which I
would respond, “Girl, who knows? I’m black. Everything.” It wasn’t a complete lie. All I know is, you would
never catch me with a kink or nap. There it was: I was addicted to “Creamy Crack.” At times, I would perm
my hair two to three times a week, up to eight times a month!
Then, fate dunked my head under an ice cold sink. In 2008, my grandmother was diagnosed with breast
cancer, had surgery and survived it. Consequently, the Universe shifted my circumstances and forced me
to leave my husband/stylist and children, and move back to Louisiana to care for her. It was the greatest
twist of fate of my life up to that point because I was able to spend time taking care of the woman I so
adored, who had taken care of me in the same way or better, most of my younger life. But as a bonus, I
was not able to get my hair done on the every-other-daily basis like I had been.
But a “raggedy head” didn’t matter much. I was back home. Who cared how I looked? Home is where you
can be you without abandon because anything would be an improvement over old junior high school
pictures. Right? But I’m always classy chic, so as my hair grew, so did my style options. I included caps,
wraps, scarves, bands and water/conditioner curls. I couldn’t go home often and when I did, there was no
time for perms and cutting before I had to get back to Louisiana to my grandmother.
Then one day, I read somewhere that, “During slavery, masters would get an additional $100 for their
female slaves if they had soft, long curly or naturally straight hair.” That was it for me! If getting perms was