I Needed Control of My Life, So I Started With My Hair
I grieved the chance to have an uncomplicated pregnancy. I grieved the fact that having more babies could be potentially fatal. And I grieved a younger, more carefree me.
One night, I pulled up my old Flickr account and browsed pictures from my early twenties, with my leopard pants, bondage belt, and blonde hair. What a bad bitch I was, I thought. I was cute and sassy. My hair was so light, it looked like I was ready to burn down King’s Landing. I remembered long nights staggering home up a big hill on Main Street in Pittsburgh, stopping at the playground to swing when I was halfway up. Waking up with bruises after falling down a fire escape the night before and picking up skinny dudes with Mohawks at Eighties Night. I’d never be able to recreate these days, but I could certainly recreate the aesthetic.
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More in this series
All these self-styled experts online drown out the intuitive voice of the parent and sow doubt in every decision that they make.
In the ‘Beloved,’ ‘The Baby,’ and ‘Barbarian,’ Black women grapple with vengeful mothers and children. In my life, I’ve broken that cycle.