"Mya, are you sure you want pink?"
We were in the beauty supply store picking out hair for my box braids. I looked at the pastel pink colored 100% kanekalon hair secured with plastic. Then I looked at my mom, who had a noticeably dubious expression. Her countenance wore apprehension as if something were wrong, but I couldn't place why.
I nodded my head and placed the synthetic hair into our basket.
The next day, my mother braided my hair. My scalp was aching and I refrained from releasing tears for if my mother caught it, she would call me tenderheaded then loosen her grip for no more than five seconds only to make it tight again. Besides, beauty is pain.
I pretended to scratch my hair to see how much was left. I estimated three more, but she seemed to split the remaining hair into more sections than needed.
When the braiding process was concluded, she handed me a mirror to see how it looked. I grinned, fancying the intertwined pink and black strands of hair and how great the colors seemed to compliment each other.
"You like it?" She asked. But it didn't appear that she was really asking if I liked the braids, but more of her questioning why I would care for them.
I was skeptical of why anyone would show any objection to it (even if it was subtle), but I still smiled and told her how highly I thought of them.
On Monday, I wore my hair to school, strolling down the hall confidently with my neatly done box braids. When everyone began to look at me and snicker, my countenance dropped. I could feel something was wrong.
When I walked into class, I questioned my friend as to what was so unsuitable about my appearance.
"You really don't know?"
I shook my head, absolutely clueless as to what she was insinuating.
"Only light skinned girls can pull off that hair color. You should stick to darker colors."
I frowned. "Oh." Dark girls can't wear bright colors. I was ten.
Another instance, I was thirteen and began experimenting with makeup. I picked up a red lipstick. Something simple, that everyone wears. I bought it with some money I earned from babysitting. The next day, I wore my red lipstick to school. I truly felt like I was that bitch. I looked so cute.
I started walking down the hall to my class, with books in hand. There were a group of upperclassmen boys near the lockers, probably eighth graders who were skipping.
I started walking past the group of boys, hastening the pace of my feet and tried not to make eye contact.
"Aye shorty in the white sweater."
I looked down at the clothing that clung to my body. That was me.
I turned around to face them. "My name is not 'shorty in the white sweater.' It's Mya," I snapped, rolling my eyes.
"Damn, nevermind baby. Jeez, it's always the darkskins with an attitude." The boy said.
His friend who was just about my complexion, if not darker chuckled, then tapped his friend. "Aye bruh, that's why I need me a Latino chick. They feisty but sexy."
I had begun to walk away when ol' boy who was just speaking said: "Word of the wise, stay away from red lipstick, baby. Red lipstick isn't for black girls. Especially not for dark skinned girls."
I maintained my cool composure, but inside I crumbled.
