Hair, race, and afro puffs, Part 2: Electric Boogaloo

My hair and I have a hate-indifferent relationship. I hate messing with it, trying to get it to look somewhat presentable. I dislike the time it takes to blow-dry it and will happily shower the night before. However, after a night of sleep, my odd-wavy hair looks more like random curls and frizz. My hair in the meantime, just lies there being defiant.
My frustrating relationship with my hair started with birth:

My newborn picture. My hair was so bad, they taped the bows to my head.

5 or 6, my parents chopped off my hair when my dad returned to school and my mom went to work. Dad didn't know what to do to girl hair, so I got boyish hair.

Middle School. My first perm/lion's mane.

Marching band, circa 1994-1995. Believe it or not, this is when I cared for my hair. 

I think I was probably about 9 years old before I started really caring about my hair (the pictures above indicate otherwise). My mother was always the one who tied up my pig tails. I'd sit at the dining room table as my mom raked a brush through my tangled hair. I'd try to distract myself from the tugging pain by playing with whatever plastic hair accessory my mother had decided to put in my hair. Hair ballies became a boy and girl dancing and twirling with their ultra flexible bodies. Plastic animal barrettes became talking animals on a Disney-esque quest.

How many times did you accidentally snap yourself with one of these kid-sized plastic bolos?

Admit it. You had these. A LOT of them.

Eventually, she'd finish pulling my hair up and I'd complain that it was too tight and she'd minimize my complaints and send me on my way. Once I hit adolescence, I figured out that my mom could french braid. And french braids were the thing. Again, I'd sit at the dining room table as my mom tugged hard on my hair, pulling and twisting. But this time, I had no ballies or barrettes to amuse myself. So, I'd fidget or turn my head to try to talk to my mom. She would become frustrated and do something, like threaten to hit me with my own comb (before you start to think I was this horribly abused child, keep in my that my mom was 4'11" with a thick Asian accent and a very huggable body. When she would get mad, she'd yell in a lower pitch. If she was REALLY mad, she'd yell at us in Lao. But watching my mother lose her temper or threaten us is probably like watching Big Bird yell at you. You'd be scared by this raging force of nature, but at the same time, its pretty damn funny). When my mother would get to the bottom of the french braid, she would realize that she forgot a rubber band. Rather than trust me to hold the end of the braid, she instead led me around the house, pulling me around by my french braid until we found a rubber band.

Every now and then, I will stop and think to myself, "Oh my God. I've become my mother." (Not that she was a bad model. It just makes me feel old) For example, while walking outside, Sera followed after me, leaving the door wide open. I asked Sera to close the door because she was letting in all the hot air. Yes, hi emae, there you are. While I haven't threatened to beat Sera with her own comb, there have been several times that I've clutched it tightly in one hand with a loud groaning, "EHHHHHH!" The maintenance of Sera's hair is easy. I've learned so much in the past year. I know the right and wrong ways to detangle. I know the difference between conditioner and co-wash. I know the importance of satin pillowcases. I've also learned several hair styles. We've come a long way from puffs.

6 puffs in a star-pattern

Multiple twists with barrettes at the end.

Piggy-back braids.

I'm not sure what to call this. I created it on the fly after another style failed to hold.

First attempt at a veil style.

First attempt at box twists. The twists had a mind of their own and would point in all different directions. 

If all else fails, find a hat. 

I've impressed myself. For a girl who wouldn't even comb her hair on some days when she was younger, my fingers can do a lot with Sera's hair. To be honest, its not the styling that is difficult. Its the parts. I do not have to manage one center or off-centered part, but one or two vertical parts and usually several horizontal parts. Cutting though that thick and curly hair with a rat tail comb can be cumbersome at times.

Most of Sera's hairstyles take up to an hour to do (which amazes some moms who tell me that they can't even get their daughters to sit still for 5 minutes of hair styling). Every Sunday morning, we give Sera a bath and her once weekly hair washing and conditioning. I then sit her down in the high chair with a Kindle or my iPad. She gets a treatment of a leave-in conditioner or oil, followed by some more finger detangling. And then we go. Sera is usually pretty patient through this process, but she frequently mucks up the works by tilting her head to the side, turning around to show me something, or scratching at the hair I just arduously styled. "EHHHHHH!"

And then we reach that point. The point when Sera has had enough. I refer to Sera as my 9th inning gal. She will be very cooperative with various tasks until we are so close to being done. If we're trimming her nails, she will be okay during 10 toes and 9 fingers, but once we reach that last pinky finger, she has had enough. It's usually a fight to finish because Sera begins to cry and squirm. The same thing happens at the store. She'll be content through the entire shopping trip until we reach the register. And with her hair, she's is good through the majority of the styling until we have one final braid or twist to do. She then declares herself "done" and I sometimes have to bribe her to finish the last of it.

I know that over time, I will see these moments as bonding experiences between mommy and daughter. Since I am still a novice, it feels more like work in an artistry that is beyond my capabilities. Like having a stick-figure artist paint a Rembrandt. But one day, we'll sit for hours in a beauty shop, sipping smoothies and listening to gossip. Someday, we'll sit at the dining room table and joke with one another as we corn row, twist, and braid her hair. And there will come a day when I forget the elastic and will tug Sera by the braid around the house because I don't trust her not to mess up her hair in that short time.