On November 29, 2014, I sat in my stylist's chair and asked her to cut my relaxed ends off. And in 45 minutes, I joined team natural. No trumpets. No "freedom feelings." Just my relaxed hair scattered on the floor and my stylist waiting for her check.
I'm used to short hair. A bad relaxer my junior year of high school had me rocking a pixie cut most of the fall. But this was different. Or at least I felt like it should be. I paid my stylist, ran to the grocery store for some chips, and played Jenga with my brother. I'd say it was a pretty normal day - until I got dressed for dinner. I couldn't keep my eyes off my mirror. I cried. And I cried some more. Ten minutes later and I'm still sniffling as India Arie's soundtrack is speaking to my soul. So I snapped a picture and posted it on Instagram.
Something changed for me when I decided to big chop. It meant finding friends and videos who will teach me how to flat twist and properly detangle. It meant finding more shows to watch while I deep condition. It meant redefining my ideals around black beauty.
I, like many of my peers, choose to document my journey through gratuitous photos of myself. My phone is filled with selfies and soft smiles (s/o to my snapchat friends) as I embrace my roots. I've got so much to learn and at least 10 different brands of shea butter I want to try.
Cheers to a beautiful year.