CinDRnyc
01-02-2012, 09:02 PM
The assignment is:
Write a descriptive essay about a person, place, or event that has helped to define who you are or that has had an impact on your life.
What do you all think? :nod: Be honest my professor is a stickkkklerrr!
All That Kink n' Curl
On November 19th, 2009 I made a firm decision that would impact me for the rest of my life. I went cold turkey from the “creamy crack” obsession that had caused me so much pain and suffering for the last sixteen years. I call it this because I was so addicted to how it made my hair look that I couldn’t stop. With over one-hundred relaxers under my belt, each one further disintegrating any trace of my real ethnicity, I became numb to the grueling process. After my first relaxer, my identity became permanently glued to how perfectly straight my hair looked and this was my reality. Relying on the approval of others as a young girl caused me to deny my natural hair texture for so long, but when my last relaxer horrifically damaged my hair, I was forced to stop. As I learned to manage my new growth, I began to find pleasure in styling it; this caused me to embrace my true ethnicity and feel comfortable in my own skin. Considering taking this out>>>>(The day I received my last relaxer was monumental for me, the layers began to slowly peel away to reveal a scared little girl who was once brainwashed to feel imperfect and ugly. )
A hair relaxer is a hair straightening product made of caustic sodium hydroxide that is used to permanently smooth out kinks and curls into perfectly straightened strands. In the Dominican culture, the texture of a woman’s hair determines her “true beauty.” Straight, long, silky, and full hair is the ideal and if a woman does not have this quality, she is considered “flawed.” This ideology is so incredibly prevalent in the Dominican culture, that even struggling and poor families will scrounge up any money they have, to get their daughter’s hair relaxed, so that she can have “good hair.”
My mother didn’t know how to handle my incredibly thick, curly, kinky hair. Painful memories of the torture sessions I endured as a child creep back into my memory. Tears soaked my face as she yanked, pulled, and tugged my tender mass of cotton-like strands in an attempt to detangle them. My mother didn’t know it then, but my type of hair was not supposed to be detangled when dry, only when soaking wet and saturated with conditioner. Incessant comments from friends and family floated around me and tormented me, like being poked with a stick of sharp thorns without defense. “Oh, poor girl has got some bad hair, when are you going to take her to the shop? She is so pretty except for that kinky hair!” They nagged continuously.
My 1st trip to the beauty shop for a relaxer finally arrived. I was eight years old. Part of me felt it was wrong to have to change my natural hair to be “pretty” but as I entered the shop, the chattering stopped at a halt, as they all stared and snickered at my large mane of cottony tresses. With flush-filled cheeks and embarrassment filling my demeanor, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. My mother tried to console me and urged me to sit in the padded chair. “My hair must be so hideous, I must make it straight so I can have good hair” I reasoned. As she mixed the toxic ingredients, it seemed as easy as making a cake. The creaminess was enticing, smooth and silky like vanilla frosting. I couldn’t have known the hidden danger lurking beneath the velvety mixture.
As she continued to mix, a pungent odor of bitter chemicals filled the air and its acidity lingered. As the rich and creamy splendor was applied onto my virgin hair, it felt like chilled cream cheese spread against my skin. Minutes passed, and I began to feel a tingling sensation all over my scalp, like someone was tickling my scalp. Horror consumed me as the tingling intensified and was transformed into a burning that I had never experienced before. “You want good hair, right? Two more minutes” she snapped. Tears rolled down my face as the burning seeped into my scalp, every second the heat increased, I was in pure hell. What was wrong with my natural hair? Why did mom make me do this? I just wanted the burning to stop! I pleaded to myself. Finally, the ice-cold sensation hit my scalp and the burning began to subside as she rinsed the creamy substance off. “Vinegar, to neutralize” she blurted. The bitter scent soaked my strands and stung the fresh open sores on my scalp, I begged her to rinse it off as my petite hands covered my face in despair. The next day, the open sores turned into scabs that had my hair glued together for days. I sobbed as my mother applied cream to separate the charred hair. As traumatizing as my first relaxer was, I continued to do it every two to three months for the next sixteen years. I dabbled with different brands to find one that didn’t burn quite as badly, but they all did.
At age 24 years old, I experienced my final straw with the “creamy crack.” Clumps of hair lay in her sink as I gazed in horror. As heat rushed through my body, a realization hit me like a smack in the face, “Why was I torturing myself all these years? Was it worth it, just to have straight hair?” I demanded she rinse off the relaxer and proclaimed to never put that malicious substance on my hair ever again.
Later that day, I announced my decision to go natural to friends and family, and they shrieked in confusion as to why I would do such a thing. Although I knew it would take a long time to grow out the dry and mangled strands that remained, I didn’t care; I wanted to rid myself of the damage it had caused and finally have healthy hair. I have welcomed my natural texture with open arms, and feel proud to represent my culture, with kinky hair and all.
Write a descriptive essay about a person, place, or event that has helped to define who you are or that has had an impact on your life.
What do you all think? :nod: Be honest my professor is a stickkkklerrr!
All That Kink n' Curl
On November 19th, 2009 I made a firm decision that would impact me for the rest of my life. I went cold turkey from the “creamy crack” obsession that had caused me so much pain and suffering for the last sixteen years. I call it this because I was so addicted to how it made my hair look that I couldn’t stop. With over one-hundred relaxers under my belt, each one further disintegrating any trace of my real ethnicity, I became numb to the grueling process. After my first relaxer, my identity became permanently glued to how perfectly straight my hair looked and this was my reality. Relying on the approval of others as a young girl caused me to deny my natural hair texture for so long, but when my last relaxer horrifically damaged my hair, I was forced to stop. As I learned to manage my new growth, I began to find pleasure in styling it; this caused me to embrace my true ethnicity and feel comfortable in my own skin. Considering taking this out>>>>(The day I received my last relaxer was monumental for me, the layers began to slowly peel away to reveal a scared little girl who was once brainwashed to feel imperfect and ugly. )
A hair relaxer is a hair straightening product made of caustic sodium hydroxide that is used to permanently smooth out kinks and curls into perfectly straightened strands. In the Dominican culture, the texture of a woman’s hair determines her “true beauty.” Straight, long, silky, and full hair is the ideal and if a woman does not have this quality, she is considered “flawed.” This ideology is so incredibly prevalent in the Dominican culture, that even struggling and poor families will scrounge up any money they have, to get their daughter’s hair relaxed, so that she can have “good hair.”
My mother didn’t know how to handle my incredibly thick, curly, kinky hair. Painful memories of the torture sessions I endured as a child creep back into my memory. Tears soaked my face as she yanked, pulled, and tugged my tender mass of cotton-like strands in an attempt to detangle them. My mother didn’t know it then, but my type of hair was not supposed to be detangled when dry, only when soaking wet and saturated with conditioner. Incessant comments from friends and family floated around me and tormented me, like being poked with a stick of sharp thorns without defense. “Oh, poor girl has got some bad hair, when are you going to take her to the shop? She is so pretty except for that kinky hair!” They nagged continuously.
My 1st trip to the beauty shop for a relaxer finally arrived. I was eight years old. Part of me felt it was wrong to have to change my natural hair to be “pretty” but as I entered the shop, the chattering stopped at a halt, as they all stared and snickered at my large mane of cottony tresses. With flush-filled cheeks and embarrassment filling my demeanor, I wanted to crawl into a hole and die. My mother tried to console me and urged me to sit in the padded chair. “My hair must be so hideous, I must make it straight so I can have good hair” I reasoned. As she mixed the toxic ingredients, it seemed as easy as making a cake. The creaminess was enticing, smooth and silky like vanilla frosting. I couldn’t have known the hidden danger lurking beneath the velvety mixture.
As she continued to mix, a pungent odor of bitter chemicals filled the air and its acidity lingered. As the rich and creamy splendor was applied onto my virgin hair, it felt like chilled cream cheese spread against my skin. Minutes passed, and I began to feel a tingling sensation all over my scalp, like someone was tickling my scalp. Horror consumed me as the tingling intensified and was transformed into a burning that I had never experienced before. “You want good hair, right? Two more minutes” she snapped. Tears rolled down my face as the burning seeped into my scalp, every second the heat increased, I was in pure hell. What was wrong with my natural hair? Why did mom make me do this? I just wanted the burning to stop! I pleaded to myself. Finally, the ice-cold sensation hit my scalp and the burning began to subside as she rinsed the creamy substance off. “Vinegar, to neutralize” she blurted. The bitter scent soaked my strands and stung the fresh open sores on my scalp, I begged her to rinse it off as my petite hands covered my face in despair. The next day, the open sores turned into scabs that had my hair glued together for days. I sobbed as my mother applied cream to separate the charred hair. As traumatizing as my first relaxer was, I continued to do it every two to three months for the next sixteen years. I dabbled with different brands to find one that didn’t burn quite as badly, but they all did.
At age 24 years old, I experienced my final straw with the “creamy crack.” Clumps of hair lay in her sink as I gazed in horror. As heat rushed through my body, a realization hit me like a smack in the face, “Why was I torturing myself all these years? Was it worth it, just to have straight hair?” I demanded she rinse off the relaxer and proclaimed to never put that malicious substance on my hair ever again.
Later that day, I announced my decision to go natural to friends and family, and they shrieked in confusion as to why I would do such a thing. Although I knew it would take a long time to grow out the dry and mangled strands that remained, I didn’t care; I wanted to rid myself of the damage it had caused and finally have healthy hair. I have welcomed my natural texture with open arms, and feel proud to represent my culture, with kinky hair and all.