And Apparently My Solution Was: Then We Won’t Have Hair.

I would love to tell you that shaving my head was the beginning of some beautiful, intentional natural-hair journey.

It wasn’t.

I was tired and didn’t feel like taking my braids out.

That’s it.

That’s the story.

Well, technically, there’s more to the story because at some point there were scissors, clippers, a minor Britney Spears moment, several months of wigs, and an eight-year-old who was absolutely disgusted with my decision.

But we’ll get there.

The Braids Had to Go

I had these tiny knotless braids.

And when I say tiny, I mean tiny.

They had reached the end of their lifespan, and I knew it was time to take them down.

Normally, this wouldn’t have been that big of a deal. Annoying? Sure. Time-consuming? Absolutely. But you sit down, find something good to watch, start taking them out and eventually you make it to the other side.

Except this time, I looked at my head and felt exhausted before I even started.

I started thinking about how long it was going to take.

Braid.

After braid.

After braid.

After braid.

And I just couldn’t do it.

So I grabbed some scissors.

Chop.

One braid gone.

Chop.

Another one.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

And somewhere during this completely rational and well-thought-out process, I apparently decided cutting the braids wasn’t enough.

The hair needed to go too.

Now, I can’t remember whether I had already ordered the clippers before I started cutting the braids or if I ordered them afterward.

And honestly, the fact that I may have purchased clippers in advance means this whole thing might have been slightly more premeditated than I’d like to admit.

Either way, eventually I had clippers in my hand.

And I shaved my fucking head.

All of it.

Gone.

I’m talking tennis ball.

G.I. Jane.

Nothing left to discuss.

And when I finished, I stood over the bathroom sink running water over my scalp.

If you’ve never been a woman with a head full of hair who suddenly becomes a woman with absolutely none, I don’t know how to explain the feeling of water directly on your scalp.

It felt amazing.

I kept running my wet hands over my head thinking:

Oh my God.

This feels so good.

And for that brief moment, I felt relieved.

The braids were gone.

I didn’t have to take them down.

I didn’t have to detangle my hair.

I didn’t have to do anything else to it.

For once, my hair needed absolutely nothing from me.

Then Cristian walked into the bathroom.

My Son Was Not Impressed

Cristian took one look at me.

And stopped.

“Why did you do that?”

I looked at him.

He looked at me.

“Why did you cut off all your hair?”

And then came his final assessment:

“Now you’re bald.”

And he walked away.

That was it.

No:

“Mommy, you’re beautiful no matter what.”

No:

“I love your new haircut.”

No heartwarming mother-son moment where he touched my bald head and reminded me that beauty comes from within.

Nothing.

This child looked at me like I had made the worst decision of my life, informed me that I was now bald, and removed himself from the situation.

And honestly?

He wasn’t entirely wrong.

It Wasn’t Really About the Braids

Looking back now, I can laugh about it.

But I also know I wasn’t standing in that bathroom shaving my head because of some deep hatred for knotless braids.

I was overwhelmed.

Not necessarily by one catastrophic thing.

Just…

life.

I’m a single woman raising a child whose father lives states away.

That means there isn’t another parent in my house to split the everyday shit with.

There isn’t somebody who can casually say:

I’ll handle school drop-off.

I’ll pick him up today.

I’ll take him to jiu-jitsu.

I’ll figure out dinner.

I’ll clean the kitchen.

Go take care of yourself. I’ve got it.

At the time, I was trying to keep up with being an active-duty Sailor, working, school drop-offs and pickups, and I believe Cristian was doing jiu-jitsu four times a week.

Then there was the house.

Cleaning.

Laundry.

Organization.

All the little things that make you look around one day and wonder how the hell your house got away from you when you’ve been busy the entire time.

And then there was me.

My hair.

My nails.

My skin.

My clothes.

My body.

I’d gained weight. I didn’t like the way my clothes looked on me. I didn’t feel particularly good about myself.

And even taking care of me had somehow become another list of things I wasn’t keeping up with.

That’s the thing about being overwhelmed that I don’t think we talk about enough.

Sometimes there isn’t one huge thing wrong.

Sometimes everything just needs maintenance at the same damn time.

Your child needs you.

Your job needs you.

Your house needs you.

Your laundry needs you.

Your calendar needs you.

Your body needs you.

Your hair needs you.

And you’re the person responsible for keeping all of it moving.

So I looked at those tiny-ass braids and thought:

Man, fuck this.

I’m not spending hours taking these things down.

For what?

And apparently my solution was:

Then we won’t have hair.

Problem solved.

Technically.

Then I Started Lying to Myself

Of course, once the hair was gone, I needed a narrative.

Because “I got overwhelmed by my to-do list and shaved my head” doesn’t sound nearly as intentional as:

I’m starting my natural-hair journey.

Oh yes.

This was a fresh start.

I was going to start from scratch.

I was going to really take care of my hair this time.

I was going to nurture my scalp.

I was going to grow these beautiful, long, healthy, coily locs straight out of my head.

New hair.

New me.

A journey.

Girl.

You didn’t even have time to take the good hair you already had out of some braids.

Let’s call a spade a spade.

You had a minor Britney Spears episode in the bathroom.

That’s what happened.

And the funniest part is that for somebody supposedly so liberated by her beautiful new beginning…

I didn’t want anybody to see my head.

Nobody.

I wore wigs to work.

Wigs to the store.

If I was walking the damn dog, I either had on a wig or a bonnet.

The only person who regularly saw Bald Crystal was Cristian.

And let me tell you:

Cristian never came around.

There was no adjustment period followed by acceptance.

He hated it.

The entire time.

Apparently, my natural-hair journey was my journey to walk alone.

I Didn’t Think This Through

There was also one fairly significant detail I hadn’t considered before taking clippers to my scalp:

I love braids.

I’m a braids girl.

And do you know what you need in order to get braids?

HAIR.

Imagine my surprise.

Now I’m standing here with my little tennis-ball head realizing that not only did I shave my hair off because I didn’t want to take my braids down…

I had also eliminated my ability to get more braids.

For months.

So instead of spending several miserable hours taking down one set of braids, I sentenced myself to roughly seven or eight months of wigs while I waited for my hair to become long enough to braid again.

Excellent decision-making.

No notes.

Eventually, though, we made it.

My hair grew back.

I could get braids again.

The wigs could rest.

Cristian got his mother back in a hairstyle he found socially acceptable.

And I can confidently say:

I will never do that shit again.

Sometimes Overwhelm Looks Like a Bald Head

I think we expect overwhelm to look dramatic.

Crying.

Breaking down.

Not getting out of bed.

Being unable to function.

And sometimes it does.

But sometimes you’re still functioning just fine.

You’re going to work.

Your kid is getting to school.

You’re making appointments.

You’re driving to activities.

You’re paying the bills.

You’re doing laundry.

You’re answering texts.

You’re handling business.

From the outside, everything is moving.

But inside, you’re running out of room.

And then one day, you look at something completely ordinary—something you have handled a hundred times before—and realize:

I do not have the capacity for one more fucking task.

For me, that task happened to be a head full of tiny knotless braids.

So I eliminated the task.

And the hair attached to it.

Would I recommend this particular method of stress management?

Absolutely the fuck not.

But my hair grew back.

My son survived several months of having a bald mother against his wishes.

And eventually, I was able to get braids again.

So I suppose there was a lesson in all of this after all:

Next time, get bigger braids.