My Blog

When I was in the third grade, my teacher was Mrs. Ambrose. She actually wore her glasses on a silver chain and wore a constant frown.

Every morning, Mrs. Ambrose would call attendance. I’d chirp out “Present” and she would look over her glasses at me and slowly shake her head.

I’m like, what did I do?

I’m the teacher’s pet. I do my homework. I raise my hand first always. Why the disapproving look?

Finally, one morning, I got my answer.

We’re all doing our boardwork. (Remember boardwork!?)

Mrs. Ambrose says, “Aliya come up here, please.”

I hustled up to her desk.

“Yes ma’am.”

“Turn around.”

I turned, my back towards Mrs. Ambrose.

I heard her open up a desk drawer and take out some items. Next thing I know this woman is whipping a comb through my hair.

“Don’t make no sense for this child’s hair to look like this every day,” she mumbled, as she tugged through my naps.

There was a spritzing of detangler.

There was an application of green colored grease.

Hairbows were fastened.

(She kept this stuff in her desk drawer?)

My scalp was pulled so tight, I couldn’t blink. After 15 minutes, Mrs. Ambrose, said, “Okay, have a seat.”

I took a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the classroom door. I almost didn’t recognize myself. My hair! It was…done!

It was not something I was used to. For my mom, doing my hair meant smoothing it with her hand before opening the car door and dropping me off at school.

Now, let me make this abundantly clear.

Mothers don’t get more effective, nurturing or supportive than Rita Moore King. I’m not half the mother my mom is and I never will be.

But that woman never did my hair.

I thought about scanning in some childhood pictures. But I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Just trust me, whether it was picture day, a wedding or just a regular school day, please believe that Aliya S. King was the girl with the week-old  linty ponytails.

“Do you understand how you screamed when I came near you with a comb?” my mother always says. “I couldn’t take it.”

Whenever my mom says this, I just shake my head and frown.

“It can’t be that hard Mommy,” I always say.

And then I had a daughter.

But before I gave birth to my own daughter, I inherited TG. So I was no stranger to doing hair. And TG has more hair than I ever did. Every Sunday that she spent with us, I would wash, condition and detangle her hair. Then I’d make neat parts with a skinny comb and give her dozens of shiny, two-strand twists that would last the whole week.

This process wasn’t easy. TG would cry as I detangled, laying her head in my lap and pressing her hands to her temple letting out a steady stream of ow ow ows.

But TG was a trooper. She did it. She sat there and took her lumps like a woman.

I continued to look at my mother askance.

She could have done this, I thought to myself as I raked my comb through TG’s hair. Hmph. Just throw that baby on your lap and make it happen.

And then, two years ago, I was on my back, at St. Clare’s Hospital, attempting to push a baby out of my nether regions and feeling nothing thanks to a lovely epidural.

I didn’t know what I was having ahead of time. TH and I wanted to be surprised.

But for my entire pregnancy, everyone told me I was having a boy.

Perfect strangers: That’s totally a boy.

Relatives: You’re carrying high! Totally a boy!

I interviewed a zillion artists during my pregnancy:

Usher: Looks like a boy to me

Puffy: A boy, for sure.

Jeezy: I bet you any amount of money you having a boy

Idriss Elba: (in a heavy British accent) Man, you’re huge. I think you’ve got two boys in there.

I was absolutely convinced that I was having a boy. So was TH.

When my midwife pulled that baby out and said: It’s a girl! I was literally in shock.

A girl?

But a girl has to get her hair done!

A year later, I had to literally chase Tog down if she even saw a glimpse of a comb in my hand.

You know how the dentist holds the needle down at his side before he jabs you with it? That was me with a comb, approaching Tog like she was a lion sleeping in the jungle.

At a year old, her hair was still baby hair fuzzy and it was three different lengths. She was bald in the back and front and had long wisps growing out of the top of her head, like a character on Fraggle Rock.

I did the unthinkable. I cut Tog’s hair and gave her a TWA. A few relatives had something to say: how you gonnna cut that baby’s hair!

But I didn’t care. Tog’s TWA was easy to manage and cute.

But then it grew. And grew. And then grew some more.

Now she just has an A.

And my baby’s hair is very rarely done.

I can’t be bothered! She’s not easy like TG. She won’t lay in my lap and just cry like a normal kid. She screams bloody murder, bolts from the room, tries to take the comb out of my hand, begs me to leave her hair alone.

It’s torture. For both of us.

So instead, I’m repeating the cycle.

Tog’s hair is never done.

And I mean never.

Went to brunch with a friend and she gave me a raised eyebrow when she saw Tog’s fuzzy ponytails.

“Need to comb that child’s hair,” she said.

“Easy for you to say,” I said. “You have a boy.”

“Do her hair,” my friend said. “Stop being trifling.”

That night, a Sunday, I forced Tog between my legs and pulled and scraped and combed and brushed. She howled the entire time.

But the next morning, she went to school looking like this:

YAY! Look at that! Shiny sections. With the classic ball-y thingies!

I was so proud of myself. I texted the photo to both my brunch friend and TG’s mom.

I can do this!

But that night, I took out the little ball-y thingies and Tog said, “You’re doing my hair AGAIN!”

And I thought, nope. I’m not.

She went to bed in her ponytails. The next day, I smoothed them down with some of my 20.00 Paul Mitchell mousse and reapplied those ponytail holders.

I did that for the rest of the week.

Are there mothers out there giving their little girls a new, fresh hairstyle every. single. day?

That’s a full time job!

The next Sunday, I tried cornrows instead of ponytails.

Whoo-hoo!

Okay. So my part is crooked. And the braids are a little wobbly. But it’s done. It’s neat! It’s presentable!

Homegirl rocked those braids for a week. By Friday, she had an Afro halo surrounding her braids. Not cute. Don’t care. Can’t deal.

I hereby apologize to my mother, Rita Moore King, for giving you the side-eye for most of my adult life for your lack of hairstyling skills.

I now have what you had: a fiesty, fiery, loud child with a head full of hair.

Here’s Tog today. On day five of some kind of mess I created last Sunday.

Sigh.

And yes, she’s feeding the dog milk from her sippy cup.

You got something to say?

I didn’t think so.