Ironically, I held no childhood compulsions to lay down my baby hairs. My hands were not trained with gel stiffened toothbrushes and precision, but with bright brittle crayons and youthful ease. You begin to notice that being so carefree isn’t inconsequential. You’re swept into swirls at the edges of western beauty.
I was never good at smoothing down my baby hairs. What were supposed to be glides were stumbling staccato brushstrokes at best, It never was as easy as posited by the beauty guru supremacy. Shamed by my innate inadequacy, my naps suffocated under a cotton blend headband.
I soon grew tired of pleading with my baby hairs. Whether from laziness or frustration, I surrendered to something I should have been embattled against
I no longer feel compelled to lay down my baby hairs The spring of my coils are that in the steps with which our ancestors marched on. Would Angela shirk from her ferocious fro, in fear of outside compulsions? Isn’t the beauty of Lupita ever more striking with her glorious fade? I will no longer define myself by standards I can not sustain. I’ll never master the art of laying down baby hairs.
-Sydney Bryant ’23
