The Chronicles of Hair - Vol1

When Abigail first came home, her hair was styled in bunches all over her head, tied with colourful bands, like a giant pincushion on her head. It wasn't so much the style that bothered me, but the smell. Not good.

It was her first weekend at home and I was ill-prepared for a chubby toddler with stinky hair. For instance, it had not occured to me that little children require small towels and child-sized blankies. I had only big, bulky towels and I drowned her in white fluffiness.

But the hair! I took off the bands and loosened the bunches. Soon I unveiled the source of  the smell. In this bunch, a piece of soggy bread. In another bunch an unidentified yellow substance, vaguely resembling egg. Lots of grease. Lots of yuckiness. The result of living in a home with seventeen other little children, all requiring attention from over-worked and underpaid care-workers.

I called my friend Tamara. I told her I was going to cut off all her hair. I don't remember what Tamara said exactly, but there was some degree of horror on the other side of the phone. I took the only tool I had: a large pair of kitchen scissors, and started cutting.

Clean-cut and happy to be free from the heaviness on her head, Abigail was unaffected by the loss of her crowning glory. And little did she know it was the start of a Great Hair Adventure.

From there, we went on to dreadlocks. First of all, I felt closer to the hero from my teens, Bob. He would have been proud of my rasta child. The dreadlocks were cute, cool and most of all, easy! My friend Ncumisa explained that you could achieve much with a wet facecloth rubbed in a clockwise direction in the bath at night.

Eventually the dreadlocks became fuzz-attractors. I had not yet discovered hair products. The locks went from black to brown to gray, from spiky and funky to limp and clumpy. Then a friend's son mistook her for a boy. The dreads had to go.

Out came the kitchen scissors and snip, all the dreads were gone. Simone helped me mix and apply relaxer to the remaining hair. In just half an hour Abigail was having her hair blow-dried into a sleek, straight bob, very smooth.

Two weeks later, there was a strange bald patch on the back of her head. I tried to tell myself it was just the curl returning to her hair, but in reality it was her hair breaking off. After a month I repeated the process. For a day, I was the proud mum of a child with really cute hair.

When I went to pick her up for school the next day, a child with brassy, wiry hair ran up to me and called me mamma. I smiled and wondered who this weird-haired girl really was. As she turned her back to me I saw it. A bald patch. Actually all her hair had broken off at the back and it was orange. It was orange and wiry. I still get shivers thinking about it. She seemed unaffected. Her school concert was in two days.

In the car I told her the kitchen scissors would have to come out again, but this time, I would replace her hair with something she had been wanting for a long time: braids.

I called my friend Ayanda. We met up the day before Abigail's concert at 16:00 hours for Operation Restore Dignity. She introduced me to some skillful Cameroonian hairdressers near Mowbray station, who had learned their craft at the feet of their elders. The plan was to have her hair braided and get home in time for supper.

Five and a half hours later I had swept the entire salon out of boredom. Abigail and I were both starving. But it was all worth it. She looked like a princess.

The Braids - with her Nonna (my mom)

Watching her standing center-stage at her concert the next day, I was glad I had finally made the move to synthetic hair. Braids are really easy to maintain. Then they actually have to be removed.

For this we called Melody, travelling hair-dresser from Parklands, originally from Zimbabwe. She removed the braids and started plaiting Abigail's new hair. There was an hour of tears followed by joy as Abigail saw her corn-rows in the mirror. They were neat.

That was a month ago. Eventually I removed the plaits myself without having to call on my friends  for the how-to. I washed and rubbed her scalp with hair food and finally fluffed out a beautiful afro. I feel like I have graduated from the same hair school as Claire from the Cameroon. I have a bathroom cabinet full of hair balms, moisturising sprays and detanglers. Most of all, I know how and when to use them. I have black friends on speed dial in case of emergencies. I am sorted.

This week I was brushing Abigail's natural, soft afro and nagging her to keep still. Look up! Look down! Stop moving!

Abigail begged me to stop. To which I answered, "Abigail, mamma just wants to make you look pretty, darling."

"But mamma," she said, "I am already pretty!"

Reality check. All the shinanigans were about me wanting to appear to be a competent mommy in a fiercely competitive world of Dark and Lovelies. Ultimately, Abigail feels pretty good about herself. She likes what she looks like. Hair and all. And that is how my child taught me a lesson in self-worth. We really are more than our hair.