My fro is sort of like my calling card. When I met one of my internet friends for the first time, and I had my hair pulled up, she said “Awww, I thought I was going to see the fro.” It’s almost like a living breathing thing. Once upon a time, on a weekend getaway, I’d flat ironed my hair to do something a little different for my sweetie. He was very polite about it, but said, “But…you know…I prefer the fro.” I think if I could send my hair to social engagements, people would be cool with that.
I kind of feel as though I’ve always had it, though it’s only been five years. I’ve often thought about locs, because I think they’re gorgeous, but at the end of the day, the fro is me. It’s not about this being “better” than any other style of hair. It’s about me choosing a style that says everything you need to know about my personality: wild, thick, and a little bit crooked. When my mood is frazzled, the circumference of my fro is almost always off. When I’m having a good hair day, typically I’m having a good everything day.
I fell in love with the idea of having a fro when I saw Cindy Blackman playing the hell out of the drums behind Lenny Kravitz in the “Are You Gonna Go My Way” video. Everything about her exuded power and confidence. The desire for froness was only exacerbated with the emerging Ms. Lauryn Hill. Her striking features were framed by this kinky halo, which I decided felt like cotton candy and smelled of coconut. “I want my hair to do that.”
After years of hemming and hawing, I had my big chop. It was a defining moment, because I wasn’t trying to see what being natural was all about. I decided that whatever my hair was going to do, was perfectly okay with me. It was for life. I have “relaxer-mares.” They’re the strangest dreams. I’ll go to some stranger salon, and leave with silky, processed tresses that I flat out don’t want. Suggestions to flat iron it are sort of met with an ultimate nose scrunch. It would be long, but it wouldn’t be me.
Cheers to the ladies whose hair is totally lay-inable.