I AM NOT MY HAIR? - CONNECT, A YANASISTERS PUBLICATION

This means WAR

BY SHANTELL CANNON

Almost four years ago, my hair became a casualty of war!

I sat in the black leather swivel barber chair (for my first time ever) inhaling smells of masculinity. The conversation between my husband, daughter, and the barber seemed like a weird dream intermingling with the rap music echoing in the background. The conversation was meant to include me, but I felt like I was outside myself looking in.

“So how much hair has to be cut off? Should I fade it? Do you want to keep the hair?,” Mike (my husband’s barber) asked, with a look of pity and sadness on his face. My daughter and husband answered most of the questions as I sat smiling in an effort to convince them – and myself — it was all good.

In an effort to support me, my husband and daughter started saying they would cut their hair too, but I responded with a big “NO.” I didn’t want my own head shaved and certainly didn’t want any of my four beautiful girls or hubby to shave their heads either. “One cone head in the family is enough,” I jokingly chimed in.

We separated the hair above the area where the surgery would take place, putting my braids in a bun on top of my head and using a rubber band to capture the part that would be shaved. In only a few seconds, the snipping of scissors and the buzzing of clippers removed what I’d spent a lifetime combing, oiling, pressing, and perming. My “glory” (as my grandmother would call it) was half gone and dropped into a sandwich baggie, just like that!

I’d casually said for years that at thirty, forty, fifty I was gonna cut it all off and get me a fancy Anita Baker or Toni Braxton cut. But, with each decade I found a new reason to hold on a little longer to my glory. Like most girls, I had been groomed to associate hair with beauty. I even remember measuring our ponytails after getting our hair pressed, and school kids talking about “good” and “bad” hair. Although I’d long ago done away with those notions, I still found it hard to let go of my hair.

But that was before I was diagnosed with Chari One Malformation. I’d experienced two blackouts intertwined with what later I’d find out were other symptoms of the condition. After what seemed like dozens of MRI’s and a series of other tests, my neurologist referred me to a neurosurgeon to perform a five-hour brain surgery.

With all of the pre-surgery visits came a hodge-podge of feelings. The staff talked about cutting open my head with the same casual tone of a conversation I’d had earlier about putting dinner together. I guess brain surgery was pretty normal for them. It all sounded fine until you walked through the waiting room to see the blank stares of patients walking at a snail’s pace, pushing walkers, or sitting in wheelchairs with giant bandages on their heads. It seemed like a scary scene from a horror movie!

On the day of the surgery, I drifted into a cat nap, surrounded by so much love. Hours later, I woke from a deep sleep praising God that I’d made it through!!! It wasn’t until the next morning that I realized I wasn’t made of steel after all… my strong running legs barely accommodated a slow walk. In a blink of an eye I’d gone from a marathon runner to barely walking. Hair was the least of my worries!

After four years healed, it’s very clear that this battle was about so much more than the physical. This journey of restoration came from the inside out. At my most fragile moments I realized my husband didn’t love me because I was sexy (ha); after surgery, we endured some very un-sexy moments. My family didn’t love me because I cooked and cleaned; they raced at taking turns caring for me. My girlfriends didn’t love me less because I couldn’t visit them or throw the best parties; they brought the party to me. Most of all, GOD didn’t love me any more or less in this broken, fragile state. I served Him just fine as I was. My faith walk didn’t require walking at all! It only required me trusting with authentic faith and praise. Nothing that I could or couldn’t have done mattered. Long hair, short hair, no hair. Running, walking or sitting… I was still so valuable to those that loved me most!

One morning during my recovery I woke up from a magical dream that I was walking on a breathtaking beach, wearing a long flowing dress; with a crown of beautiful silver locs draped down my back. It felt so real, so authentically me. When I shared my dream with my hubby he smiled and suggested we take this loc journey together. It’s been cool learning about the history and creating our own.

What felt like war that day at the barber shop was actually a beautiful road towards triumph and authenticity. This was a complete healing of my mind, body, and soul.