It’s noise that gets you.
The clamour of family laying their claim. Loud and demanding as they declare their ownership of you. The uncertainty of relationships of old once the veneer of care is stripped bare by the test of time and its uncanny knack for exposing what was sold as solid to be revealed as ply. Aesthetically useful when painted but brittle when tested. The ambiguity of professional encounters that masquerade as relationships, where we profess to know those people we interact with. Who present an ‘as expected’ face whilst concealing an admirable zeal in their endeavour to unmask you. Because, of course, if they wear one then they are duty bound to rip off the one you must surly wear before you expose them. Right? A tinny, synthesised descant to the dark bass of your own body betraying you. Plucking away at your hair and leaving you teetering on the verge of succumbing to the hypnotic call of the tears running down your face. Each and every night you vow to get it over with and just cut it, but your resolve wavers under the pressure of exposing your personal vulnerability to those who would view it as a lack of strength. The ever present chorus of insistent emotions that whirl to a frenetic crescendo, before bringing everything to a distraught end. And your efforts to pull yourself away from its allure become less frantic. It’s noise. And you’re unable to organise it all so, you succumb to it and allow the discord to envelop you. And you close your eyes and try and block out the light.
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So. TemplePatch came back. Rude! I know stress exacerbates it and poor diet doesn’t help, especially my habit for not wanting to make any Haribos feel left out by leaving them in the packet… When I was younger, as in in my yout’, I was fuelled by Kale. Curly Kale. Meat was dished out sparingly unless it was after Church lunch, weddings and Christmas. As a child, your lot comprised of meat-gravy or if you’d done well in school or you were unwell, you’d find a ‘rogue’ piece of meat under your greens! We drank copious amounts of water, mainly because of the heat but also because juice was for guests or special occasions because Heaven forbid a visitor come round and there wasn’t any Mazoe. (Preferably the Cream Soda or raspberry ones because Orange made the inside of your throat itchy, resulting in unbecoming throat clearing in an attempt to ‘scratch’ it). I felt healthier. I WAS healthier. I was a half decent athlete, headaches were occasional, and despite the Teen angst, I was at peace. Once I turned 20-10, the migraines became frequent, the Alopecia fearless, my skin dull and my mind was never at rest. Many of my Veganite friends encouraged me to examine my diet and encouraged some honest self reflection and a return to faith. Because for me, faith works. I just need to remember to let go and allow faith to work for me as opposed to trying to make it work. So today, I return to the Kale, water, the fruit: the less processed everything. To the less of anything that caused my mind to clutter, my vision to fail or my faith to falter. So thank you, Rhonda, Tony, Tandy and Lani. Day one. I wonder if sipping meat-juice counts as eating meat... One thing you may have heard, or already know about me. I’m a snob. And it would appear that I have been one for a long time, which suggests that were this an academic programme, I would have several Doctorates. The book-writing, motivational-talk-giving, radio-programme-participating Dr of Letters. With a TED series never mind a TED talk! I believe it has something to do with my nose being in the air… One thing you may not already know about me? TemplePatch and NapePatch have been a part of my life since I was 11 years old. I’d always had good hair - although it was fine in texture, it was healthy, long and manageable. As the alopecia ‘gobbled it up’, its natural state meant that humidity would cause it to shrink, leaving Temple and Nape exposed. So my Mum bit the bullet and I went to the local salon. Sadly, it was the time of the curly perm – (ala Mukadota’s Katarina or Whitney Houston), or the straight perm (ala Pocahontas ). The best way to get a ‘sillyhairgoback’ style. So we went to the salon. The consultation began with my Mum explaining that ‘it’ wasn’t contagious, before leaving to buy the lotions that they felt they would require from the shop beneath the salon. Then the hairdresser called other people to come and have a look whilst moving my head backwards and forwards with my hair to avoid having to touch it. As if I couldn’t see that her face was screwed up in disgust in the mirror. As a seasoned African child, I was accustomed to having my head moved around as an older female decided what to do with my hair, but this was a stranger who was calling other strangers over to gawp. To add insult to injury, I had to explain what ’it’ was, why I had it, (Lord only knows!), and all whilst smiling and pretending I was fine with all the attention. My Mum returned with the requested gloves, creams and straightening lotions which then did their noxious job. As we left, I dutifully thanked the hairdresser as I smiled to show my ‘pleasure’ at the hair plastered across my scalp like a cheap greasy toupee. The patches were covered but the chemical smell soon killed my hair’s will to live and the Patches reigned. Pretty soon, I could barely comb over TemplePatch, and Nape had spread to such an extent that she was making her way UP to meet Temple in person. Strangers would point and laugh on the bus, so I began trying to hide NapePatch by scrunching my shoulders up to cover Nape’s nakedness. Which in turn would result in...my nose in the air. It helped to keep the tears from leaking. My name is AfroBren and I'm So Not (what) Others Believe. The other day, I found myself shouting out, “Who do you think I am, your maid?” But to be honest, in MY experience, nothing could be further from the truth because I actually grew up with people who my parents paid to help us in the home and they were treated better than these children treat me! Where I come from, the Maid is NOT called a Maid if you are a child whose last name originates in Africa. FACT! If your last name originates out of Africa, then you call her a Maid and you address your friend’s parents by their first name. For those of us born with an African last name? A stranger comes into your home and becomes ‘Sisi’ or Sister, and as for the parents? Good luck avoiding a beating whilst trying to explain why you even know an adult’s name, never mind having the nerve to use it! Sisi can only receive instruction from either the WagePayer or the Emissary of the WagePayer, usually a child sent to pass on instructions. Sometimes it was necessary for Sisi to verify the information the Emissary imparts to ensure, for example, that the WagePayer had really sanctioned the dispersal of Milo sprinkled ice-cream. More often than not, Sisi also had the power to allocate household tasks; something we were all keenly aware of because an annoyed Sisi could hand you the Cobra floor polish for the outside verandah. The RED one! A task NONE wanted to do because it was sure to leave you with waxy red residue in your nails for weeks! And woe betides anyone who kept her waiting once the WagePayer instructed her to do your hair! (I direct you to exhibit A –Aunties, scratching combs & throbbing scalps & Exhibit B – The Plaiting Saga). Sisi is treated with equal parts fear and respect by the children because she often holds the power to discipline, something many African children are familiar with after experiencing public telling offs from nosy neighbours and friends of parents alike. And God forbid your parents find out that Sisi or a neighbour had to tell you off. The resulting reprimands, hidings and recriminations for the shame that you would have brought upon the family was followed by threats of further harm if it were to happen again. I digress. I was shouting. Why? Because not only am I expected to trim/wash/brush/style their hair, but I’m also kept waiting by these children. So here I am. Still in the bathroom with my collection of hair tools. I SO get why she used the metal tail comb to scratch my scalp! On the 6th of July 2015, I posted the photograph of TemplePatch. The photograph had her covered in a filter because whilst I wanted to share my experience, pride dictated that I honour my shame. Who lets strangers see something that her own family haven't seen? So I uploaded it, clicked 'Post' and it was done. On the 6th of October 2015, I have posted a photograph of the area formally known as TemplePatch. Words fail me at this moment. I vacillate between euphoric relief and crying jags motivated by the little voice in my head that won't stop saying that "I'll be back!" Because it's been back. Many times. And just typing those words is making my eyes leak. But I will continue to do my best to ensure that I give my hair a fighting chance. I will use my Aphro comb to moisturise my scalp, Spirulina/Udo's Oil/Biotin & plenty of water my hair into better health. Here’s to hair being attached to my scalp until it’s long enough for me to toss it over my shoulder in a ‘silly hair, go back’ kind of fashion! This is a photograph of a photograph of my Mum and me. Before she was my Mum, she was Harriet. That’s Aunt Harriet, actually, because growing up I heard SO many people calling her that, that I started doing it myself! Mum was my first and best hairdresser, a virtual hair whisperer. She knew what did and didn’t work with my hair, and her stretching comb fringes were the one – not a crispy edge in sight and no burning smell, either. She would ‘outsource’ scratching, washing and plaiting, but the actual making the hair look good she did herself. This mix-tress thing that the natural hair community has going on? Harriet did that in the 80s. She read up on products when reading up meant getting a book or magazine as opposed to asking Google/Yahoo/insert your search engine of choice. Time, trial and error lead to mixes for different needs – plaiting mix was heavier on the castor with a touch of glycerine so as to draw in and lock in moisture. For stretching and fringe creating she used a mixture heavier on the coconut oil – sealing in the moisture she added to my hair as well reducing the likelihood of a ‘limp fringe effect’. I’ve booked a consultation with her this weekend. She thinks I’m joking but nah, man. I need those recipes in my life! Very few things in my young life had the power to finish the joy in my heart than my Mum uttering the words ‘alikel’eluke inwele zika Nhlanhla!’ (Someone plait Nhlanhla’s hair!) Why? Because of the resentment it caused in every plaiting age female member of the family to whom the words were directed. None wanted to be the plaiting age female within hearing when these words were uttered. Because we know it will involve a LOT more than just plaiting. 1. Undoing the old plaits. This is when the muttering under the breath starts as your head is pushed every which way as the wool is unravelled. Things are worse if you’ve previously complained about the service provided by the Plaiter. Whiplash is common. 2. The prayer by both parties that the scalp is somehow moisturised despite the owner of the scalp gallivanting in the African dust under the drying sun and doing very little to maintain the hair between plaitings. 3. The actual ‘scratching’ when dry scalp is detected. Not IF. WHEN. (Refer to the post about ‘scratching’ for detail). 4. The vigorous brushing off of the dry flakes on the hair before it is washed. Usually with the green Sunlight laundry soap. Not the blue one that fell apart at the sight of water, and not Lifebuoy because the smell of that lingered and although they didn’t want to waste money on shampoo, your Mum didn’t want people to be able to SMELL how cheap she was being! 5. The muttering moves on to kissing teeth and other choice expressions of exasperation because they may have to now stop for the disposal of the soap ‘ends’ in a tin can so that they can be reused once they melt into each other. This is important because if Mum was to spot you throwing a soap end away your plaiting would be paused to facilitate a telling off to go with the hiding. 6. Then there is the rough drying of the hair with the DRIEST towel to be found on the line, followed by the application of your Vaseline of choice. They were ALL called Vaseline even the one from Botswana that melted too quickly. 7. And finally the use of the tail comb to draw blood lines along the scalp whilst parting it into the required pattern. More Vaseline is used to stem the bleeding as well as to moisturise the scalp but TOO much will attract the aforementioned African dust. Quite often, the wool is SO tight it causes bumps to become raised where the hair is being pulled out of the scalp. This is cured with Vaseline. 8. The owner of the head is then sent to Mum to inspect/comment on the hairstyle. Tears MUST be of joy at the good work and profuse thanks must be offered to the Plaiter who will roll their eyes at you and walk away. The telling off of the owner of the head to be plaited for being an inconvenience continues for the duration of the plaiting and is often punctuated with comb slaps to the head if the one being plaited does not respond to instructions to turn in a speedy enough fashion. Any complaints are cautiously made to avoid antagonising the Plaiter. All you can look forward to is the day you can do your own hair so as to avoid the wrath of others as well as the head and neck aches that result from each plaiting. Until that glorious day, Vaseline cures all. Two and a half years ago, I called my husband into the bedroom and asked him to get his hair clippers out.
I then asked him to shave all of my hair off. He tried to negotiate terms. I pointed out that yet again, TemplePatch and NapePatch were growing at such a rate that the hair seemed to be spirited away overnight! Where was it going? Even now I don’t understand what Alopecia does with the hair it steals. It probably comes out whilst you’re combing, however it really looks and feels like it just disappears. So that poor man took the brunt of it. I wailed, sniffed and shouted at him to shave it all off and then he bravely suggested that I should just persevere and that my hair would eventually grow back. I wasn’t having that! Did he want me to look like a clown? They had tufts of hair for comedic effect. Was I a joke to him? How dare he try and say something to try and make me feel better! Who did he think he was saying helpful things like ‘stop crying so much because you’ll get a migraine’. It’s MY head and I know that stress and snot crying often sets me off. I wanted to be dramatic and silly and not a grown up about having to shave my hair off and here he was being sensible. Some people. He eventually shaved it off to ‘shine short’. I think I scarred him for life! And that was when I began to wear a HairHat. From shine short to ‘fro, my wigs have been invaluable. These days, they are my protective style of choice, but even so, I still have to protect my hair from them.
Wigs work for me, but only when I treat my own hair with respect. So I have to eat, drink and sleep right because when I’m nice to my hair, it thrives. Need to work on the sleep and drinking water thing… Now where did we leave that ginger biscuit wielding 11 year old? Oh but how could I forget? At the Dermatologist with his needles of Cortisone! The 11 year old was snot crying, pleading with her hapless Father to spare her from the pain. Her Mother had withdrawn from Injection Duty after failing to cope, and her Father now understood why. Watery eyes, flowing snot and hiccup screams were the reason. The injections stopped. This was before widespread use of the W.W.W. and no, you chuckling so-and-so. It wasn’t before the Internet, just before the widespread use of it, so the Father went to the local pharmacy to get advice. The Pharmacist told him of a new topical treatment derived from high blood pressure medication called Minoxidil, however there was a catch: it wasn’t available in the country. Joy. Not locally available AND costly to import. Temple and Nape Patch alike continued to grow and the ongoing concealment of their progress was becoming increasingly challenging. The parents had no choice – they had the pills imported and the helpful Pharmacist mixed them up and there you have it – Topical Minoxidil (2%). Gloves were purchased because the ointment was not to make contact with unafflicted skin. It was applied sparingly twice a day and each application was puncuated by verbal reminders from The Father to not 'use too much! Do you know how much that small thing costs?' That, dear Reader, was the begining of PatchWatch: the Series. My flower girl hair was maintained by my Mum . When the A.A arrived, Mum had her work cut out for her because whilst at first, it wasn’t too bad because there were two relatively small patches, when the determined 11 year old refused to continue with the cortisone shots, the patches grew. Temple and Nape of scalp patch alike. It was like they were competing because it seemed like virtually overnight, they went from the size of a 5 pence piece to the size of ginger biscuit. Why a ginger biscuit, you ask? Because in the interests of thoroughly upsetting myself by confirming how dire the situation was becoming, I chose to hold up a ginger biscuit against Temple Patch . Now getting the aforementioned biscuit was not easy because: 1. My parents felt that sugary food was to be rationed to avoid unnecessary expenditure on dental visits. 2. My dad thought it was character building for us to watch him sitting on the steps outside the kitchen door as he casually ate his ginger biscuits whilst we finished our sitshwala and beans. We knew that to approach without making the appropriate preparations would end badly. So we would make sure we came running when called or sent to do something and gave him no reason to doubt our ‘good child’ status. Even then, you were more likely to get a no than a yes to ‘make you realise how hard life can be’ he’d say. On this day, it was not my day to have my character built. I got a biscuit. And then I wandered off into the bedroom to watch myself in the mirror as I ate my bounty. Whilst nibbling away, my eyes drifted to Temple Patch. It was obviously bigger, but how much bigger? Hence the biscuit being held against Temple Patch. And it was confirmed that Temple Patch was the same size as a ginger biscuit. This was the beginning of PatchWatch: The Series. |
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