Show Notes

• Archived Blog Post

  Date / Time: 2/21/2008 10:38 PM UTC

  I WANT MY NAPS BACK by Deanna Michelle Smith
  

  Deanna Michelle Smith

  Email:  deanna_m_smith@comcast.net

  Cell: 313-377-4180

  Word Count:  2,056

   

  I WANT MY NAPS BACK

  Regardless of the phenomenal statement, I am not my hair, belted out by the famous songstress, India Arie I still believe a girl’s hair molds her into the woman she will become. Uppity glares and unfair treatment from her equals create insecurity and inferiority—almost as if she didn’t deserve to be born. If her locks are silky and long then she’s considered a goddess. If they are short and nappy, she may as well label herself a lowly servant. A nappy mane to some means you’re practically invisible or maybe so noticeable that you get teased unmercifully.
  

  
  I’d inherited a combination of my mother and father’s wiry, hard to manage hair. My father, Theodore kept a clean cut at all times because if it even grew slightly, it looked like he sported a used throw rug for a hat. I became heir to the throne of having Teddy’s naps.

  Growing up in a house with seven children who ridiculed each other every chance they had could really put a damper on a young girl’s self-esteem.
  

  
  “Ugggh, girl you got Teddy naps!” my cousins would tease, licking out tongues and giggling without remorse. Any confidence that had been instilled in me by my parents was slowly withering away. Regardless of my cognac slanted eyes framed by sweeping lashes, thick and full kissable lips and smooth caramel skin, I was still not good enough because of the matted crown donning my head. My sugary sweet personality didn’t help against their judgmental glares and snide remarks either.

  My mother wasn’t the best beautician and sometimes even went without combing my hair for days at a time. I remember at about the age of nine or ten, waking up one morning, walking into the living room with the other kids and being shut down by my uncle. Of course, with drawn-up kinker bugs covering my dome and sticking straight up in the air like I’d been electrocuted, I became an easy target.
  

  
  “Look at that hair!” he shouted. Laughter spilled from my cousins’ mouths and tears rushed from my pupils. Those few little words mixed with being the butt of the joke commenced the uncertainty stirring inside of me and creating damaging effects.
  

  
  I began to hate my hair!

  Infatuated, I would observe my older auntie while she created a masterpiece on my younger auntie’s long, thick and beautiful good hair. I practiced and eventually learned how to French braid and press my own strands. I wished for the ponytails that lingered down her back instead of the balled up pigtails on top of my head. Doing the best I could with the mess God had blessed me with was still not acceptable. Constantly worried about my appearance while twirling the bulky tendrils around my fingers, I began to notice a few tiny balding spots by age twelve.
  

  
  Entering my freshman year in high school brought about more stress and anxiety because all the girls had perms that straightened their tight curly locks and mine was still a big puff ball of disgrace. I’ll never forget the day I visited the beautician and was given a relaxer. I was fourteen.

  “Thank God for perm girl! ‘Cause yo’ hair was nappy as hell!” My beautician proclaimed and I couldn’t have agreed with her more. For the first time I was able to glide my fingers through soft, silky tresses. It was like a miracle! A heavy load was lifted from my head. I’d toss and turn my neck so I could feel the feathery tips on my shoulders. For once I felt beautiful. As soon as I got home, I locked myself in the bathroom and touched, shook, and stared at my new do. Nothing felt better than to be able to actually move my neck in one single motion and watch my satiny new coat fall into place instead of stick to my head like hard rock salt.
  

  
  The habit of putting my hands in my hair never stopped, but the growth of new hair did. In the space of months new bald spots formed and just as sudden as they appeared, they also vanished. In high school, I was known as one of the females with nice hair for a change.
  

  
  “Deanna, your hair is so bouncy and pretty. What kind of shampoo do you use? It smells good too,” my friends commented. I remember the peach-scented shampoo that left me feeling just as fresh as I looked. Finally, my confidence level skyrocketed. No more Teddy naps! However, I was hiding an unspeakable secret and prayed no one would find out about my problem. During the time when the balding occurred, I couldn’t wear ponytails. Wearing one ponytail was considered cute, but I couldn’t risk being ridiculed again for having small shiny patches throughout my head.
  

  
  After visiting a dermatologist at seventeen-years-old, and being diagnosed with Alopecia Areata, I still did not falter. The tiny odd shaped patterns could be covered and didn’t worry me. The doctor explained treatments like topical creams and steroid shots. Even though I wasn’t pressed about the balding as much as having nappy hair, I still didn’t want to deal with the nuisance of a problem and decided to go through the process of needle injections in my skull. I prayed for the nickel sized spaces to grow back and even placed some of my dead hair inside the Holy Scriptures where it reads, “A woman’s hair is her glory.” Sure enough soft baby-like strands grew back and actually added growth to my already shoulder length hair. Prayer worked.
  

  
  At the age of twenty-five my hair was full, thick and healthy except for the small patches that still decided to visit me once or twice out of the year. My first-born child changed my hormones and I became the envy of the girls with the hard to grow follicles. Pregnancy and the change in my hormones seemed to cause the blood disease to go into remission. Unfortunately, several months after giving birth, the injections were needed again to stop the increasing stagnation of growth. Even with this unusual problem of hair loss, I was still concerned with my so-called Teddy naps. It wasn’t until after the birth of my second child that a drastic change occurred. One of the smooth patches that formed on my scalp expanded and it became more difficult to cover. Weave wasn’t an option because I was a natural girl, except for the chemical treatment that I depended on to warp my Brillo into silk. Again, I visited the dermatologist.
  

  
  “Do you use perm?” The doctor asked, placing her hand through her quill-like tendrils. I shook my head up and down in affirmation.
  

  
  “Black women need to stop using harsh lye and chemicals on their hair. See I go natural because the stuff is not good for you,” she declared, as I focused on her bi-racial textured mane and vanilla colored skin. I rolled my eyes and tightened my jaws because her advice wasn’t an instant remedy or an option. There was no way I was going back to my childhood nightmare. No more Teddy naps!

  “Well, what about the shots? Can’t you give me some shots?” I pleaded.
  

  
  “Deanna, this one in the front has gotten worse. I can’t inject the medicine in an area that large,” she stated, disappointing me to no end.

  “Well maybe I should get a second opinion.”

  “I’m sure any good physician will tell you the same thing. You just have to stop using those harsh chemicals. Then maybe it will grow back. See, you have three stages of Alopecia. There’s areata, totalis and universalis. You have areata and it may go into dormant and you’ll see progress but with any aggravation, it could get worse and go into the next stage.” I heard her medical advice, but I stopped listening when she told me to bury my creamy container of straightener. I wasn’t blessed with her mixed blood and good hair. I had straight up African bee-bee shots and there was no way I could go without a relaxer. I didn’t care what she said. No one could possibly understand my dilemma because they weren’t walking in my shoes. They didn’t have to worry about the wind blowing and broadcasting their shameful personal business. Or going to the beauty shop, sitting uncomfortably because naturally inquisitive people stared in amazement. So to avoid the embarrassment, I was finished with beauty shops. The last visit to the hair salon almost landed me in a fight.
  

  
  “Wow, what happened to you?” Another customer pointed her fat fingers and stared with open mouth and wide eyes, bringing more attention than necessary. I actually lowered my head in disgrace.

  “Could you please get out of my head and mind your own business, damn!”

  “I was just asking what happened. How did you get that big bald spot in your head?” she asked, waving her hefty arm and speaking loud enough to attract others to my imperfection. My weakness stood out from a mile away. I wasn’t prepared for more verbal assault and protected myself with an angry shield of armor.
  

  
  “Look, I told you to get the hell out of my head, before I smack you!” Yes, I was upset, irritated and enraged. Why did I have this ailment? So what if nothing actually hurt and it was not life-threatening. However, my condition was life-altering. I wanted what God had blessed all women with and that was a full mane.
  

  
  After visiting the first dermatologist, I decided to go ahead and get a second opinion. About six or seven student interns were placed in the room with us to observe. They had no expression. I didn’t detect any judgment or sympathy. They just stared as if I were a science project.

  “Okay, Deanna, doesn’t look like there’s anything we can do for you. There’s too much hair loss. We could get aggressive but then that could affect your other organs. Like your kidneys.” The white male doctor’s silver eyebrows rose while looking at my chart then he glanced at me over his reading glasses.
  

  
  “Will it grow back on its own?” I asked through the throbbing lump in my throat.

  “Nope,” he answered without an ounce of compassion.

  “I’ve heard about hair transplants. Do you think …”

  Shaking his head from side to side before I could complete my question, “Those are scam artists. That won’t help your condition. You should invest in a nice wig, honey.” A rush of tears clouded my vision. I fought to hold them back, but reality hurt worse than the name calling I received as a child. The doctor and the interns left the examination room and I cried. I shook, hummed, rocked back and forth and I cried some more. This had to be a mistake. Someone had to be playing a terrible joke on me. There was no way a thirty-one year old woman could be losing her gorgeous hair like an old balding man. No more ponytails, or up do’s, not even some curls brushed to the back. My options were:  weave or a wig. My heart ached from knowing there were no other alternatives.

  Today, I thank God for other things besides the superficial. At first I believed that I had no reason to be proud of myself because I felt disadvantaged without hair flowing down my back. Of course now I thank Him for human-like weave to cover my complete hairless crown—something I refused to consider about ten years ago. I even thank Him for a very considerate and sweet personal hair stylist and a husband who couldn’t care less if I ever decided to shave it completely off.
  
  But I also appreciate the breath I take each and everyday. Don’t get me wrong, it’s difficult to cope with. Allowing my two babies to see their mother “naked” so to speak is a challenge in itself. Watching my baby girl’s eyes widened whenever she sees me without weave hurts. The mental struggle is so difficult because it’s not natural for a woman to be bald. Even though I’m determined to overcome the severe insecurity that has built up over the years, I still and will always want my naps back.

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Comments

Shamontiel 3/10/2008 9:33 PM UTC However, this very last paragraph will make me more cognizant of my mother who has diabetes and takes medicine that makes her hair fall out. She has a bald spot about the same size as the narrator, and I always look sadly at her when she doesn't have braids in her hair. She insists on wearing microbraids and I rant about that stuff making hair fall out, but she sure does look beautiful with them in. This short story will make me more aware of being polite to my mother with her hair. It's easy for someone with a head full of hair (and yes, I'm anti-weave too hence the reason I don't get into braids) to judge those without. Thank you for posting this, Ella, and Mrs. Smith for writing it.

Shamontiel 3/10/2008 9:31 PM UTC My eyes actually teared up reading this. I'm not a cryer, but I felt for the narrator. Even when I didn't want a perm (I've had one since I was 6 years old thanks to my paternal grandmother who was obsessed with beauty salons; I went for almost 9 years because she was set on me going every 2 weeks), I still loved having my hair. I think dreadlocks look BEAUTIFUL on sistas, and I've been toying with the idea for awhile, but I might be slightly brainwashed myself because I smile every time I get a fresh perm. I love chopping my hair off and getting stacks. Women tend to take their hair for granted.

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