Former weave hater converts

Natural, nappy, thick and out of control. Dealing with a head full of kinks was nothing but torment, and strangely, I loved it.
My strong willed semi-naturalist mother raised my sisters and me to live by the hot comb and away from the creamy crack.
Every two weeks she put us through a torturous straightening process of washing, combing, and pressing.
Though my hair was longer, stronger and healthier than the girls with relaxers, I would’ve sold my right hand for one.
While I watched other girls’ hair blow in the wind and rest perfectly down their backs, mine blew in the wind and stayed stuck.
Hot, humid Louisiana summers left my hair a sweaty unmanageable mess, so I straightened it more often.
This extra damage left my hair battered and broken at the end of every summer.
During fall 2010, I got tired. I searched for remedies.
A relaxer was out of the question. I wanted straight hair, but not permanently. Braids were juvenile and a wig was too mature.
Then a friend suggested a sew-in. A professional would braid my hair up and sew tracks in; all I had to do was buy the weave.
To my surprise, a simple task turned into a hard one once I saw the price of good, long lasting human hair.
I almost backed out until the thought of a hot comb, singed scalp and hot grease running down my neck flashed in my mind.
I bit the bullet and bought the hair. Now it was time to find a stylist.
I heard horror stories of professionals charging $150-800 for a sew-in, but I found a great one for $80.
The pulling, tugging, and tightening was enough to give me a headache the morning of my hair appointment, but I knew it would be worth it in the end.
After about two hours the stylist handed me the mirror. I hated it.
I paid for the services and walked out of the shop feeling like I had an alien on my head.
After being natural all my life, long silky hair that didn’t belong to me just didn’t feel right.
I felt awkward, embarrassed and immediately wanted to take it out.
My roommate Christina Chambers consoled me. She said, “Don’t worry. You’re going to get addicted.”
I paid her no attention and swore to never get one again.
Three months passed. It was time to take the hair out. My hair was longer and healthier, but just as my roommate prophesied I was addicted.
I wanted the weave back the next day. I had gotten use to the convenience of a weave and looked at my hair as inferior to the long locks I purchased. Six months later I still can’t get away from sew-ins.
Some wonder how could someone who used to be so against weave make herself out of a hypocrite by getting one.
I’ve been dealing with unmanageable hair all my life.
It’s time for a little break; but, don’t worry my natural hair will return . I think.