A Shameful Confession

Okay:

So did ever tell y'all I used to have an S-Curl?

I do plan on being famous one day, and I'd hate for the pictures to surface somehow, so it's better to be forthright, I think. Like the blind black governor of New York who cheated on his wife. Just admit the shit before the bastards have a chance to expose you.

For those of you who don't know, an S-Curl is like the nineties version of the Jheri Curl, but for men. For the record, I never had a Jheri Curl. A certain member of my immediate family, who shall remain nameless, had one, and a little bit longer than she should have.

To be fair, I did want one desperately. I wanted to be like my hero, Michael Jackson. I begged and begged but my pleas were summarily disregarded. And, in retrospect, I must thank my mother for her wisdom.

As a young man, I had a complex about my hair. To me it was boring. Nappy and dry, like a Brillo pad. I wanted my hair to be exciting, like Ralph Macchio. Now, that kid had some hair.

As I aged, I realized that there was nothing that could really be done about my boring nappy hair, short of a chemical process. It wasn't going to do anything but sit there unless I did something about it. So, sometime in the very early nineties I went to Peoples and bought myself a Duke Texturizer Kit.

It's not that I wanted to look like the guy on the box. He was obviously gay. I just wanted something I could comb. A little curl. Some shine.

I went to my father's house for the weekend, and his girlfriend agreed to apply the chemical for me. I had done my research. I knew it was going to be a bit uncomfortable, but I was prepared to pay the price for beauty. It wasn't so bad though. Nothing dramatic like the scene from Malcolm X. But in the end, I was disappointed.

My hair is about as nappy as it gets. I can't imagine anyone having nappier hair than mine. It is unruly and unmanageable and unrelenting its sheer willfulness to remind me of who I am. Of course, I have come to accept and love my hair with age and I insist that whatever woman with whom I keep company feels the same. But back then, I thought that it was a shame that I was so handsome with such ugly hair. I thought I was correcting some oversight on God's part.

So, like I said, I was disappointed. The top of my head lay limp and shiny, close to what I expected, but the sides...good Lord, the sides. Around the temple area. Things just refused to cooperate. My father's girlfriend sighed, "Oh dear. The sides didn't take. I probably should've left it in longer."

I could've smacked her. But I kept my cool.

They left to go run some errand while I mourned over my half-processed head. "You should probably cut if off and start over," she had said. Out of the question. The thing about thick hair is it takes forever to grow. It had taken me months to grow my little bush in preparation for this experiment.

So, I'm sure you can already guess what happened next. After they left, I reapplied the chemical to the sides and left it in as long as I could stand it.

The ladies already know what kind of huge no-no this was. To clarify for the fellas, a relaxer is diluted lye. A destructive chemical that kills anything with which in comes in contact. In it's pure form it would burn the skin off your bones. Even diluted, it's nothing to be played with.

After one chemical treatment, you should wait at least two weeks before applying another one. I waited about thirty minutes.

The pain was indescribable.

And what's worse, it still didn't take.

Feeling extremely foolish afterwards, I kept the fiasco a secret and suffered in silence. But it was Fourth of July weekend and later on that day we were to attend a pool party at my uncle's house.

And so, as not to arouse suspicion, I got in the pool.

Lord help me.

I thought I was going to die. Apparently, chemical burns and chlorine don't mix.

But soldier that I was, no one was the wiser.

In the end, I kept my S-Curl for a few months, but eventually abandoned the experiment when I realized that my hair would never accept such an affront to its integrity. My naps were there to stay and there was nothing I could do about it.

Since then I have become a staunch opponent of chemical treatments and/or weaves for either sex. And I won't have a woman who feels differently. But I had to see for myself, you see. And experience is most certainly the best teacher.


Thanks for reading.


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Confession: Of course you know I made the same mistake twice and burned the skin off the side of my head once more for good measure. It's a habit of mine I haven't been able to shake. I don't believe shit stinks until I smell it at least twice.