Dreadlocks made as a wearable art expression of my innermost quiet rebel feminazi. I have always loved how they tied, fell, tangled, thickened.
Now back in my hometown I wear them in a reserved manner. Knowing that any old acquaintance who sees me will chalk my hair up to my old brief lifestyle of drugs and poor choices. My no make up, lulus, sweatshirts and birkenstocks are not made for here, the underlying judgement that beats in the town. Despite my new car, good career making $50/hr, my degree, I feel the strong weight of shame and judgment back here. I will gladly stay holed up in our quiet ‘miners cabin’ with its antique appliances and creaky wooden floors burning my palo santo and drinking tea.
I do miss the anonymity of the city. I never cared there. Here, I have to care, for my mothers sake, I have a reputation to undo.
The dreadlocks server as a social experiment. Many people comment, more stare. Girls in their twenties ask me how I did it, my fiancé asks me if I really like them, adults ask me why I would do such a thing to my beautiful hair. My reply is that I am tired of being my beautiful hair, every compliment of my long straight sun streaked hair was an echo of my mother reiterating how valuable and important my looks were.
My experiment serves as a door opening in hopes of being able to look at myself in the mirror and not see what my mother sees.
I want to sit on the shore of the river and soak up sun. Charge my dreadlocks with energy offered by the surrounding natural creations, the birds, the fish, the frogs, the moss, the plant life, the rocks.
This is home.