"Oh my God, Jumoke! I can't believe you cut all your hair off!"
Most of the comments, good and bad, about my hair have actually been made by black women, starting from the #1 black woman in my life, my mother. Every weekend, it seemed that she would take her weekly frustrations out on my head. Yanking, pulling and telling me to hold still, while she basically brushed my nape for five minutes. For as long as I can remember, I have always hated getting my hair done. It was an arduous chore foisted upon me by outside forces.
Don't get me wrong, I love having a great hairdo and the compliments that come along with it. But I loathed the actual process of getting it done. Sitting down in different positions for hours on end was not my idea of time well spent. While growing up, I had no control over what happened to my hair. Either my mother chose the style, or she discussed with the hairdresser that would come over to our house. I just had to supply my scalp and stop complaining.