I needed professional reinforcements. I've read enough of the Livesay's hair traumas to know that I didn't really trust a white person with my son's tight curls. Upon a friends recommendation, I took Miles to a salon about 40 miles out of town. It was the kind of place where there were bars on the windows. But we walked in and there were men all over the place with stunningly gorgeous, waist long locks. I felt instantly like we'd made the right choice in coming here.
Miles' loctitian, took him to the back and shampooed his hair. He said those words that every white mama of a black child dreams of hearing, "You've done a really good job with his hair. It's in great shape." I about beamed with pride. Learning to take care of black hair takes time, patience and trial and error. I thought I was doing a great job, but I secretly wondered if my African American friends were laughing at my ineptness behind my back. I think that it is something that we all worry about in raising children of a different race. That's a whole other post, though.
|Forgive the camera phone pictures. I did not want to be "that" mom in the salon with the big honkin' camera. I'm trying my hardest to preserve what little bit of dignity I have left!|