Movie Review: Preheated

Preheated is a CGBros animated short film, made by Luke Snedecor, a digital artist, and Sarah Heinz, a production coordinator at DreamWorks Animation. It was uploaded to CGMeetup on YouTube.com on May 24, 2019, and follows the story of a young boy trying to make a birthday cake.

It starts with a young and innocent brown-haired little boy making a birthday card for his father. It looks like something a five-year-old would conjure up and genuinely be proud of, so I'm guessing he's around that age. We hear a loud "boom" from what looks to be a basement, and out walks the kid's father. He's all upset over another failed experiment and walks right past his son who's trying to hand him the card. Some of the comments noted how the kid should have said something, but remembering how I was like at five-years-old, I completely understand why he didn't. His dad was sad and he most likely didn't want to bother him. But at the same time, it still hurt to be ignored like that. He watches his father put the Erlenmeyer flask up on top of a cabinet and watches him walk away. Which--why would you put your failures on an unprotected shelf, unsealed by the way, for them to just sit and wait to be knocked over? A basic rule of scientific experimenting is to properly discard any and all waste materials. Honestly.
The brown-haired boy, determined to cheer his father up, decides to bake him a birthday cake. Imagine, he's quite literally developed a sort of superpower and decides to just casually make a cake. Also, the kid of a scientist doesn't know that if any of his fathers' experimental chemicals spill--especially if they spill on him--he needs to call his father immediately. How are you just going to leave your failed toxic experiments out and not teach your kid this? The dad's dumb. The kid's dumb. Well, I'll give him this: he's smart for a five-year-old who wasn't taught basic scientific experimenting safety precautions. He makes an effort to overcome his issue. From oven mitts to tongs, he desperately tries and eventually succeeds to bake a cake.
Finally, his father walks in, dumbfounded. He looks around, then looks at his kid. His face is completely blank for a minute as he takes time to process what his son was trying to accomplish. Finally, his face softens and he reaches out to help his son while he's struggling with topping the cake with candles. The two have a moment and they light the candles and smile as the short ends.

Okay, this is cute and all but when is that kid going to the hospital? Cause like, that's where it ends. Oh, look at that, they have credit pictures that give us glimpses into what happened after the short ended. We get four pictures. One is of the father pouring a blue liquid onto his son's hands. One the boy looking at his now glowing blue hands. One of the two of them having a small toast, with the boy's drink frozen over in his hands. And one with the kid fumbling with some white frozen food, most likely the drink from the toast, stuck to his hand and glass, because you know, when glass freezes to your skin it sticks.
So instead of seeking professional help, the dad just whipped up the exact opposite of the original serum to give to his kid. Now the kid's the next Elsa. And, seeing as they're wearing the same outfits in all the credits' pictures, this happened on the same day. Sigh.

I'm not the only one lost by the lack of realism in the story. Several comments on the video are raging about how abruptly the short ends and how it fails to address the kid's crisis. Don't get me wrong, the theme is adorable. The animation matches the feel of it and once you ignore the blaring issues, it's an enjoyable short film. Definitely memorable for me, and it stands out a bit from the other short films I've watched. So, good animation, just a bit...iffy.

Poem Prompt: Ghost

Click. Click. Click.

Reviewing, rewriting,

adding.

Make the script better.

Click. Click. Click.

Behind the bars,

I add on.

I sprinkle in my own

and nobody knows.

I sign the paper

so I can't tell anyone.

While he gets credit--

While she gets credit--

While they get credit--

I sit in the shadows.

Click. Click. Click.

I write most of it,

I edit most of it. 

I get the most pay,

I get the most experience.

I get the most out of all of it--

except for credit.

I get no credit.

Still, I take the cash and 

Click. Click. Click.

Exercise

So, one of my 2020 resolutions, was to do an exercise routine 310/356 days of the year. That gives me about six weeks of break, so I thought it would be a breeze. I specifically wanted to focus on my torso. I wanted a flatter stomach, thinner waist, and wider hips. While I'm not saying I've already failed(we're barely four weeks into the year, how would I have failed???), it is most definitely a struggle. At the time I'm first writing this, it's January 22, and I've completed 16/22 days, including today. Not too shabby, hm? Well, it gets worse when you realize we are four weeks into January and I've already used up a tenth of my leeway.
Why? Well, laziness. The first time I even gave not doing the exercise a second thought was because of cramps. My uterus was contracting and considering how abs were one of the main focuses of the workout, I was seriously dreading getting up to try. So I didn't. I sat there and let my first day sizzle away. I felt so guilty. And, personally, guilt and laziness are an awful combination.
I managed to guilt myself out of exercising for the next three days on top of it. Thoughts like "you already failed," or "late isn't always better than never," or "so weak" are what kept me idle.
So what brought me back?
Well, will.
I closed my eyes and imagined myself with the body I wanted. Then I imagined myself with the body I have now but more toned. Then I imagined myself with no changes but with all 310 tally marks at the end of the year. I came to the conclusion that all the options were a million times better than what would happen if I never got up. Never getting up means I didn't try. Another day, no effort. That could easily lead to a week without effort, a month, a year. Imagine if I went the rest of 2020, with zero effort to try and be a better person. I would feel awful. I went into my 15th year of life, hoping and praying it would be better than my 14th. Sure, I'm fighting hormones. Sure, I'm in high school now. Sure, I'm in the last stretch of what's left of my childhood. But I can improve myself. I need to improve myself. I can and I will.
The pure rush of adrenalin I get while exercising is unmatchable to anything. The closest I get to that feeling is maybe when I'm suddenly super inspired to write and I open my laptop and get maybe five hundred words down in ten minutes. Except, with exercise, I feel the sweat in the creases of my body. I feel my muscles squeezing and tearing up, knowing they'll grow back stronger. I see my legs and back tone out and my belly fat decrease. I see it, and then I'm inspired to continue. It's an interesting cycle, a healthy one. And all I need to start is a bit of will and a lot of determination.

Picture Prompt: Draw

Inspired by my favorite artist:

GDBee

Specifically, my insta pfp

Twelfth Lovely

Weeks passed, and I hadn't gotten around to cracking into Gora. Honestly, I didn't really stress myself over it. As pressed as I was about it before, the whole ordeal kind of showed me that I didn't have to do anything big and extra to get through to my kids. Even when Couro and I stayed, we barely talked for five minutes and the real conversation didn't start until we were in the car and on the way home. All I really had to do was ask the kid. So, I decided to wait for the right moment. At this point, I was mostly avoiding it since Gora always seemed riled up over something. More than usual. I wanted to know, but the last thing I wanted was to stress him more. So for a good while, I dropped it.
About two months to Gora's birthday, I was in the kitchen sizing up pumpkins I'd just bought. I took the day off, so I had decided to go out and buy a few. Carving and decorating them was just a small thing our family did. Kutu and I first did it back when we first moved in together. The only year I've ever missed since was the one when she died. Halloween was too close to it and neither Gora nor I could bring ourselves to.
The two years after, I tried my hardest to get Gora back into it, but he never really wanted to. He was too standoffish, always backing out of doing anything with me. Especially if it reminded him of his mother, he would make sure I knew just how much he didn't want to do that thing with me. I got used to that sort of treatment and eventually let him go. Instead, Couro started to join me. Although, she only really helped after coming home from school. So, like every year, I set up in the kitchen so that the moment Couro walked in, she could come and carve.

As expected, the door soon creaked open.
"Hey, Couro!" Her face peeked around the corner and she gave me a small wave. "How was school?"
"Good," she said flatly then started to walk off.
I followed her and closed the front door. "Kiddo, what's up? You usually go off on a tangent when I ask about your day." Couro looked up at me, her eyes glossy and blinking fast. "Something wrong? Did you give Aidan the books we bought?"
"He liked them." Her eyes started to dart around. She looked ar anything but me. "He also said he forgave me for what I said. Gora too, he said it's alright."
"Anything else?" I put my hand out. For a minute, she just stared at it. Finally, she took it and followed me back into the kitchen where I put her in a seat. "Any new friends? Recess? How about your teacher, what was she like today?"
"We had a sub."
"Was she nice?"
"No."
Suddenly, the door slammed open. "This absolute bullshit!"
Frustrated, I put my fingers to my temples. "Gora! Watch your mouth!"
Gora didn't hear me. Rage deafened him as he threw his bag onto the floor. He turned into the kitchen and when he saw Couro, he looked about ready to break something. Pointing a finger at her, he huffed, "You."
"Excuse y--"
"Shut up!" he barked at me. I finally got a good look at Gora's face--his eyes were watery too. "This little...thing went around telling people I'm gay!"
I blinked. The whole kitchen was silent as we both stared at her for a minute. "...Couro?"
Finally, she burst into tears. "I didn't think it was bad," she cried. "But they were so...mean--"
"Oh, shut up!" he snapped. "Why would you ever think that's okay!?"
"Aidan asked why you said what you said..."
"What?" Gora asked, exasperated.
"You were mean to him."
"Why would I waste my time insulting an eight-year-old?"
Couro narrowed her eyes at him and pushed her point. "You didn't do it to his face. I told him about it and he was upset."
"Oh." A lightbulb flickered on. "I was having a rough day, I didn't--"
"You still said it!" she screamed. Gora froze, neither of us had heard her scream like that in years. "I said stuff too and I didn't know it would do anything, yet here you are yelling at me for it! Why won't you own up to it!?"
"Why're you yelling at me?"
"It hurts, doesn't it?"
Gora sucked his teeth. "Who even gave you that idea?"
"I saw the blanket and trinkets in your room." Her eyes flickered to me, a blatant lie. Gora's gaze followed hers, staring at me for a moment.
He turned back to her, letting her slide. "Not everything that's a rainbow is gay, idiot. Mom gave it to me. I just got around to hanging it up."
Guilt dried up my throat and I croaked out, "Couro--"
"I'm sorry," she cut me off. She glanced at me again and spoke quickly, "I thought Aidan was nicer than that. He started insulting you, and I should've said something then. I didn't know he'd tell his brothers." She paused and slid out of her seat. Hugging Gora she said again, "I'm really sorry."
Gora sighed, looking down on his younger sister. He didn't move at first and just let her wrap herself around his stomach. But after a moment, he stooped down and pulled her into his arms. I watched, uncomfortable in my seat.
"Tthe kiddo's first heartbreak," he mocked when Couro let go. "Stings, doesn't it?"
"...Yeah."
His sly expression dropped and he looked at her with pity. When Couro started to tear up again, he used his thumb to dry her eyes. "Now, shoo," he said softly. "I'm still pissed off, but I'll get on you tomorrow." Sniffling, she smiled at him before shuffling upstairs.

"Proud of yourself?" his voice rose and stiffened out. I hung my head, preparing for the worst. "You're the one who put the idea in her head. It's why you took us to the aquarium, isn't it? 'Oh, Imma get my son to come out by showing him that diversity's okay!' Why not just fucking ask?"
I bit the inside of my cheek. "I wanted to ease into it."
"Yes, because that was so easy." When I didn't respond, he walked over to where I was sitting. I looked up at him, into his narrowed eyes burning down at me. "Look, I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a liar. If you sat me down and asked, I wouldn't have lied. You know that."
"I am so sorry, Gora. I just wanted to know what was wrong." I lowered my head again and muttered, "You never talk to me anymore."
"Pity," he deadpanned. "Not gonna start now."
I nodded, listening to his footsteps going farther away.

Why do different hair types exist?

(When an ethnicity/race is mentioned, I'm referring to the norm, not the absolute. Example: "Africans have curly hair, Europeans do not." This is the norm, I know many exceptions exist. But for this page, the majority is all I'm working with.)
In short: no one's entirely sure why.
Thicker hair is, however, the dominant gene. This gives an explanation as to why nearly everyone with blood mostly from Africa--an entirely isolated continent up until a few hundred years ago--has the signature thick Type 4 African curls and coils. However, it provides a loose explanation of why mixed children tend to be thicker Type 2s and 3s.
Some research suggests that the curls first came about to protect Africans' scalps from the sun. Just like how extra melanin was pumped as skin protection, hair may have curled and kinked to cover your head. This, to me, explains why so many Africans have really thick hair. The thicker it is, the better protection it served, so coils are what spread across the continent. Also, it also explains why body hair normally remains pin-straight no matter how kinky the head hair is. However, my question would then turn to India. Unfortunately, I couldn't find anything touching on why many Indians' hair tends to be much straighter than Africans. Instead of coiling and standing up, the only resemblance their hair has to Africans' is a bit of thickness, which still flails in comparison to many Type 4s. Despite being just as hot as Africa, if not hotter, their hair resembles Europeans' hair more in terms of texture and curls. They got the melanin adaptation for the sun, so why not the curls also? My guess would be that interaction with nearby and much paler countries kept Indian hair on the straighter side.

Go here for more information on the specific gene that influences hair texture:  https://genetics.thetech.org/ask/ask107

Movie Review: Hadidance

On June 4, 2019, The Animation School uploaded "Hadidance," a student-made, four-minute animation. Short and simple, it touches on body image and wraps up with a sweet ending. A bird, a conventionally ugly one at that, is looking for love. So, she dresses herself up and goes to what is set up to be like a bar. She accessorizes herself to the point of becoming a whole new bird. On her own, she's hairless, gray, has a short tail and a squawk that she incessantly tries to hide. Added on are blue feathers, a golden snap choker, a blue ponytail, and a bigger tail.

She walks in, confident and ready. Immediately, all the other birds notice her and start ogling at her. Two, in particular, try to swoon her. A large, muscular white bird with a tattoo of weights, and a slim, blue peacock. They both give their best efforts, but it results in a series of bad experience which ends up driving the main character out.

The white bird tries to show off by lifting various things and people. Although, in my opinion, she's entirely way too small for him and I don't see how he thought they'd be a good fit. The peacock gets a bit closer and almost manages to kiss her. But, first, she steps on his tail, completely pulling off his feather. She's confused by why he doesn't feel it, but doesn't press on it. But then, she squawks, the very thing she's been hiding the whole time. Though the peacock doesn't really mind, she walks off because of it. 

Disappointed, she steps out into the rain. There, she sheds off her accessories and reveals her true self. The white bird immediately backs away, but the peacock steps up. He takes off his tail, revealing his fake feathers. He uses the set to shield them both from the rain and reveals that his hair and other feathers are also fake. And when she squawks, he squawks back. The end.

Cute.

And that's about all I have to say. No real impact was left on me. A part of me expected the chubby owl to follow her outside, so seeing it be the "peacock" was a small surprise. Other than that, the whole thing fell at satisfying and that's about it. I could be nitpicky(why were there only barely a dozen birds there with the main character being the only female?), but I won't. It's barely four minutes, so tiny details aren't as important as if it were a full T.V. show. 

It's a cute short film on body image and self-acceptance, and that's all. 

Poem Prompt: Cold Water

Did I ever tell you

how much you meant to me?

How much I cared?

How much I held on?

Because I did--

I closed my eyes

and dived right into

your cold, cold water.

I saw your face,

your eyes entranced me.

Those pearly eyes--

a gateway to the sea,

and everything within it.

I was so excited to swim.

I spent weeks sewing together

special handmade bathing suits;

one for you, one for me.

I wore it

ready to swim,

but when I touched the surface,

it was cold.

No longer welcoming--

No longer loving--

No longer warm.

But I was already in.

Your tide came out,

 the waves overtook me,

and the salt locked me in.

Your pearly eyes

were what lured me in--

a gateway

to cold water.

Poem Prompt: Nice

Hi, hello, I'm Toby,

and you?

I wanted a friend

and you seemed really cool.

Wanna hang out?

We can go grab some food.

Why, yes, I'm paying--

the nice thing to do.

I had lots of fun!

Can we do that again?

You're busy today?

Just try the weekend.

Oh, I'm bothering you,

I don't mean to.

I'll just come back

at your working time's end.

It's not inconvenient,

just being a friend.

So how about Friday,

will that suffice?

Maybe you're free,

fingers crossed, roll the dice.

I'll text you later

to remind you tonight.

Of course, after all,

I'm just being

nice.

Doing

Doing is hard. No doubt about it.

Everyone envisions what their best self would be like. Amazingly talented in your greatest passion, athletic with a lean body to show for it, a welcoming and charismatic personality, brains that continue to prove themselves again and again, etc. To a degree, this is possible for all of us. Sure, "lean" won't look the same on two people who're wired differently genetically. Or how the definition of "welcoming" varies for everyone. Point is, we all could, in theory, achieve the basics of the "perfect person."

But we don't.

Why? Because doing is hard. The people who do get here are those who're used to doing more than they really want to. Or maybe they're naturally hard workers who have less trouble doing more. No amount of luck and blessings can make up for the fact that being the "perfect person" requires more doing than most of us are willing/capable of.

So, how to do more? It's that little word that's sprinkled around everywhere. Motivation. Such an odd word, isn't it? It derives from the Latin word movere, meaning "to move." Funny, isn't it? 

So, what exactly is motivation? The general desire or willingness of someone to do something. An expected definition. As I discussed in Existing thought, life really is just what you make of it. With no drive to do something, then nothing really matters in your life. It's your personal motive that places value on what you do. For example, take schoolwork. Better yet, busywork, the bane of every student's existence. Why are we sitting here doing random, unrelated worksheets just for you to get a break? Well, why are you? And don't say because you were told to, because really, that's not enough of a reason for anything. Is it because you want to? Do you enjoy busy work? Do you like the leeway it gives your overstretched brain? What about grades? It is going in the grade book, isn't it? Maybe you just feel more responsible actually focusing on something in class?

The reason really doesn't have to be anything in particular. As long as you admit you're acting on your own free will and no one else's, then it's a valid reason. Once you have a reason, the thing you're doing has value. Maybe not to the world, but it has value to you. Get this assignment done because I want to maintain my grade. Study for this test because I really want to pass. And no, this policy isn't limited to a school environment. It applies to everything. Buy a new sketchbook because I want a place to practice my art. Learn to ride a bike because I want to be able to. Make it an "I" statement, assert that it's your choice. Dye my hair because I want to experiment with my looks. Go to the gym because I want to start lifting.

Motivation doesn't come out of nowhere, it comes from within you. You have to dig deep and pull it out. Get used to pushing yourself farther and farther. Will you become the "perfect person?" Maybe, who knows. But I do know that if you keep up with this, telling yourself to always be better and be willing to do more, you will become a doer.

Be the doer.

Picture Prompt: Accomplished

I did it.

Movie Review: Hair Love

Referencing my last Turtle Thought, hair has been a really important subject for me. So, I decided to watch Hair Love.

Hair Love was originally a book written by Matthew A. Cherry and published on May 2, 2019. December 5, 2019, Sony Pictures Animation put out a short, animated version of it. Today, I watched and reviewed the latter.
Going in, I had certain expectations. Certain tropes that seem to pop up in every natural hair story. Girl doesn't like hair. Or girl wants straight hair. Or parents belittle girl's hair. Just something. There's always some sort of negative aura about the hair that the main character, usually a girl, has to overcome.
But not here.
We start out simple, a young girl, Zuri, wakes up and has to get dressed. The clothes quickly prove to be the easy part. She goes to the bathroom to do her hair, and looks up videos online to copy. After picking one, she looks at herself, so ready to do the hairstyle, but ends up failing miserably. This is when her father walks in, realizing he has to help her. We get a comical scene of the father and her hair fighting it out, before the dad is ready to give up and puts a hat on her hair. Poor Zuri tears up, motivating her dad to push through and succeed. All dressed up, the two drive over to the hospital, where they meet Zuri's mom. I can only guess what she's suffering from, but it's left her without any hair. Zuri's drawn her mother with a crown on her bald head to gives to her, and the two have a bonding moment. The family drives home and the end credits feature snippets from them growing and we can see the mom's hair gradually growing back.
Where to begin.
It's funny, relatable, heartwarming, and adorable. The characters are so well represented. They're black, but it's not their entire being. The girl already loves her hair and her mother's. Instead of giving thick hair a sort of alienation from the norm, the story elaborates on a family's relationship with each other on the basis of hair. Mom makes hair tutorial vlogs. Zuri wants to recreate one of Mom's videos. The dad and Zuri do her hair together. The mom lost her hair due to an illness. Zuri and the dad remind her how beautiful she still is. And they go home together. Innocent and loving. On top of that, the whole thing felt so real. I can't count how many times I went through exactly what Zuri did. Go to YouTube, find a video, try it, and fail. Only to have mom or dad step in and do it for me. It's a cycle almost every girl, and some boys, of any race can to relate to. The determination it takes to finish. The feeling you get when you're done. And how a day of braiding can bring two people together. I'm blown away.
And everything I said, really is just a summary. I cannot stress how good it would be to go watch the movie or read the book for yourself.

Poem Prompt: The Untouchable

Have you ever

carelessly dreamt

about who you'll grow up to be?

Had no sense of the world

or how it works,

but still imagined yourself

above it all doing exactly what you love?

Have you ever

grown up only slightly?

Just enough to see

that your dreams require work

but not enough to see

what that work would do to you?

Have you ever

tried so hard to plan it all out?

To know exactly what you'll do

in twenty years time,

and everything you'll do

from here to there?

Have you ever 

felt the weight of everything fall on you?

The realization that your dream 

might not come true?

Realized that the world is spun

so that you have to plough a path

through everything?

Have you ever 

rethought your dreams,

to see how childish they are?

Slowly gave up and backed away 

from those who supported you?

Focused in on what is practical

but not particularly what you want?

Have you ever

in the stress of your new work,

fallen back on your childhood

and the passions you had in it?

Gone back to your past hobbies

to cool off your built up steam

and finally smile?

Have you ever

noticed just how precious passion is?

Not pursued your dreams, 

but still held on to them?

Aged in mind and body, 

but at heart stayed the same?

Realized just how untouchable a childhood dream is?

Hair

Hey! Merry Christmas, Happy New Years', Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Holidays, everything! We are back and ready for 2020!

So now.

Hair.

Let me start off with, I am African American. I have 4b/4c, thick, black coils. That's my hair. Nothing in particular was wrong with it, until I actually started to pay attention.

When I was a young girl, we relaxed it. Constantly. We bought those Just For Me! relaxer kits regularly. Maybe every one or two months, we would relax, wash, braid. Over time, the relaxer took effect and my hair took on an odd look. A darkish brown, thin, stringy ends, and it would never cooperate with anything except for braiding. I, personally, cannot remember the beginning of this practice. As far as I remember my childhood, my hair's always been light brown and wispy. When I started going to school, I was the only African American girl in my entire grade. I was too afraid to talk to older kids and just compared my hair to the other girls in my classroom. Girls who wore their silky hair down almost every day and never seemed to relax it. It was frustrating. I wanted my hair to look nice too, but I didn't know how else to wear it than in braids or out. And it didn't fall when out. My roots were always oddly thick so it held the strings at a weird angle. It looked awful. I felt awful.

Fast forward to when I switched schools. I finally met some other African Americans my age. I saw how they wore their hair, and noticed that mine wasn't like theirs either. Most girls I knew had black coily hair, much thicker and fuller than mine. No matter how much pink oil I used, or how much I combed it, it never grew. I continued relaxing, not realizing how much of an issue it was. By nine, I had an uncanny built-up endurance to the chemicals. I could sit there unphased for nearly three hours after it started burning. I thought it was cool, to be completely honest, and constantly showed off my "skill."
From 5th grade, I discovered weave. It felt like a miracle. I could finally cover my forsaken hair and make it look nice for once. I grew to enjoy crocheting and box braiding my hair. I started picking out wilder colors and choosing various hair styles and really just having fun with my hairstyle.

In sixth grade, I had a class called Interactive Media. It was essentially a computer/research-based literature class. My teacher, I will never forget her. I loved her. I was beyond comfortable in her class and she somehow found a way to explain everything in relatable terms that always interested me. I had her as my second to last class on Day 1, but I was just always there.
This particular discussion we were having, was most likely on white influence on African American appearance. As expected, hair was a topic brought up. Me, being barely eleven, hadn't really taken time out to think on anything like this, so the whole thing was genuinely a new discussion for me. I listened as my teacher talked about her experiences growing up a light-skinned black. I was one myself, and found myself relating to everything she said and just realizing how racially inappropriate it is to call a light-skin "white" because of which music they prefer or the words they use. I especially listened in on her hair talk. My teacher was born with really coarse 4a~, brown hair. Yet, even as a forty-year-old woman, she still found it difficult to come to terms with that due to how her hair was denounced when she was younger. Even I was surprised, as I had only ever seen her with straight blonde hair. She talked about relaxers' and perms' dangers, especially on young girls.

I was confused. In denial even. When a friend of mine talked poorly on relaxers, I got defensive. It was the only way I knew how to care for my hair, it had to be healthy. I remained refusing any additional information, until I came back to the school for 7th grade, and my teacher had cut her hair off over the summer.
"I want to grow it back right."
It was still blonde with visible brown roots, but it was so much thicker and curlier than I could've imagined. I was shocked. I had her as a long-term sub for my English teacher, and she changed in more than her hair. Her entire demeaner was much more confident and she became an even more interesting speaker, if that was even possible. That year, I finally took to the internet and asked some questions. As expected they all boiled down to one thing: relaxers were what was keeping my hair from growing.

My fourteenth birthday passes, and not only am I painfully aware of how unhealthy and horrible my hair is, but it feels as if it's worse than ever before. It was weak, falling out, barely able to be held in a ponytail. In hindsight, crocheting it at that point was doing more damage than anything, but I ignored it. But then I saw it. I felt the damage in the weak braids and the stringy hair and the constant hair loss. I cried. One afternoon in March 2019, I broke down and cried.
I wanted beautiful hair. Like all of my beautiful black female friends with rich, coily, puffy hair. That's what I wanted. Putting up with whatever nonsense I was keeping on my hair made no sense. But I didn't know where to go or how to start. That's what upset me most. If I did cut my hair tomorrow, what next? If it grew back thicker, we didn't have the hair supplies for thick hair. My parents didn't have the time or energy to comb it out (their explanation for relaxing it) and I could barely care for my falling out hair. I was scared.
But, I put my foot down. April 2019, I told my mom I would never relax my hair ever again. I begged her to take my for a big chop. She refused the cut--leading to me learning how to trim my own hair--and eventually gave up trying to get me to relax again. In the first month, I carried my hair out and started using coconut oil and shea butter and combed it out daily. In the second and third, we had a family trip, so I let my hair get done. One a simple crocheting, the other a proper full head of twists. While on vacation, I would sometimes get upset going on social media and seeing my friends "glow-up," while I could barely handle my god-given hair. In between, however, I took out my hair and the difference was incredible. It looked shorter, but was so much thicker. It was a solid black to brown gradient and was short and staggery. My hair actually all stuck up, something it had never achieved before. I smiled, and laughed at how I looked a typical African mom from the side.

That was a huge motivator for me. I honestly wasn't sure if I was making progress, so seeing this, was a huge breath of relief. Not only am I moving, but I was going pretty quickly too. When we came home from our vacation, I asked my dad to take me to the store and started building up my small collection of personal hair products. Some of the things I bought then, I still re-buy and continue to use to this day. Over the next month, I had my twists in, then took them out and saw that my hair was thick. No, it wasn't a stringy 3a/3b. It was a black 4b/4c. I was, beyond amazed. I could tie it up in a puff, two buns, I could (poorly) braid it--I had so much fun.
Even to today, I take so much joy in just running my hands through my coils. I used to not be able to do that, because then hair would fall out. Now, I can casually play with my hair worry-free. I had moved away once again, so my Interactive Media teacher was in a different state by the time I started caring for my hair. But I really hope I see her again, at least to just get a chance to thank her for what she taught me.

Picture Prompt: Me

What a better way to return

than with another page unturned?

Fifteen years have flown by fast

and were officially gone with this Wednesday past.

Holiday, New Years' baby, a celebration every year,

Happy New Years to all, I hope 2020 brings good cheer!