To Dread, Locs.

There are several core memories of my life so far that are tethered to my hair. The first was at such a young age that not until recently have I been able to fully understand the weight of my actions. I was five years old, going into kindergarten, and had dreadlocks. For some context, I was lucky enough to go to an extremely liberal private elementary school. The school as a whole emphasized celebrating the winter solstice, and the rules to mancala, then reciting your times tables. Do with that what you will. Moral of the story is that I was placed into the antithesis of a homogenous environment, designed to allow little black girls with cool hair to thrive...yet still, I had some small stream of consciousness that knew my locs had to go. I told my mother to cut them off. You don’t argue with a five-year-old who is convinced the world isn't strong enough to handle her hair. So, we cut them off. This was my first sacrifice in making the world more comfortable for others in regard to my hair.