Circa 2004. “Sit down,” says my mother, tapping the chair she had placed in front of the bathroom sink. I swiftly hopped onto the chair and my mother proceeded to wrap a towel around my shoulders. I dreaded what was to come next but nevertheless I was eager to see the results. I watched my mother put on the clear plastic gloves and steadily stir the white potion with a wooden stick. The air was instantly filled with that familiar smell. A chemical smell, recognized by thousands of black girls around the world. As the smell occupied the room my anxiety grew. I knew my mother would have to part my hair and comb through it thoroughly one more time. My hair was thick and never tangle-free , so I knew this was going to hurt. Luckily, I had come prepared. I always had an extra towel that would sit in my lap until the pain was too much to bear. In those instances I would bring the towel to my mouth and scream into it. I was being a little dramatic, I must admit. My mother would laugh at my antics, so naturally I played into it, exaggerating my muted screams. I called this towel my “scream guard”. The scream guard was a must for this quarter yearly ritual.

For the most part I sat on the chair in silence, occasionally tilting my head at awkward angles while the white potion was applied to my stubborn roots. I knew my roots were stubborn and needed to be tamed, which is why I happily subjected myself to this little torture. While my mother concentrated on evenly applying the white potion to my roots, I let my eyes focus on the box that had originally concealed the magical white potion. I admired the little girl on the box, her silky hair fell effortlessly to her shoulders, half of it pulled up into a sleek ponytail with two strands left out on each side to frame her face. Thanks to the magic white potion her hair had been tamed, and she could live a carefree life with beautiful straight, silky hair. She helped me endure the pain. I wanted to be just like her. I felt a little tingle on my scalp, so I kept my eyes on her. As the tingling sensation increased, I tried my hardest to keep my eyes on her until eventually…

“Is it burning?,” my mother asks, she had caught on to my visible discomfort. I nodded. My mother rapidly smoothed out the last bits of my hair and tilted my head back letting the water, along with the special pink shampoo, sooth my scalp. We were almost done. After the white potion had been washed out of my hair completely, it was blow dried and put into two pigtails. I looked into the mirror and grinned, constantly touching my smooth, kinkless roots. I could now live a carefree life like the girl on the box. It was all worth it.