“Hi there, I was here last night and went home to bath… I had X-rays done”.
“Please ask that sister over there to find your file”.
“Please ask that nurse over there to find your file”.
“Please ask that sister over there to find your file”.
“What is your name again?”
We found my file.
We found the doctor.
We examined my X-Ray
Silence befell the room.
“Oh no. Sharna… This doesn’t look good”.
A visual representation of exactly how full of kak I am.
“When last were you in the toilet?”, Dr. Sanjeev Kuthrapali [I made that name up, because racism] shouted…
I would soon find out that he was merely building up to reach even greater volumes.
The eyes of every non-constipated patient fell upon me.
“Erm… Few days ago. Is there something wrong?”
“Just a lot of fecal matter”.
And then, out of what I hope was respect, my non-constipated counterparts averted their gaze.
And so did Pravin.
“Take more blood tests and go sit”.
Always a stickler for getting the instructions completely right, I had my blood taken, and before I left, I turned back to ask Rajesh what my next move was.
“Sorry doctor, erm…”
“DON’T YOU EVER TALK TO ME WHEN IT ISN’T YOUR TURN. I HAVE A PATIENT SITTING HERE. DON’T EVER DO THAT AGAIN”.
My ‘is die bra befok?’ mechanism hit into gear, and I saw Riyaahd drop his head… fully aware of the shitstorm that was about to be unleashed upon Dr. Govender.
Silence befell the room.
Everyone must have been wondering, “What did that Naidoo?”
But, taking into consideration that president Jacob Zuma has just stuck his piel into the country’s economy … I will delay the rest of my story regarding my disdain towards the politics in South Africa, and Zille will be spared for another seven days.
So, for this continuation, tune in next week to: She takes Maimane, when I’m in need.
Allow me to take you back to 2015, for effect…
In August that year, I had a supper planned with a [self-proclaimed] fan of my previous blog. A woman who I had only seen twice before, somewhat briefly.
My editor, Jamie, joined.
A logistical issue at the time, but Jamie has since become one of my closest friends.
My ‘fan’ didn’t know this though, and to her knowledge, she was meeting my superior.
I was anxious to show her my new weave that I had just had sewn into what felt like my foreskin. Up until that moment, I felt confident that I didn’t smell too much like a freshly unwrapped Barbie doll knock-off from a station stalltjie.
I was wrong.
The only time I had ever been to Town Centre in Mitchell’s Plain as an adult had been for an abortion, and for a weave. In my life, I have found both of these activities to be of equal magnitude.
My ‘fan’ got into my car, and said to my superior…
“Awe, are you the poes that made us late?”
Even my fake hair was raised.
…And obviously, raised much better than dis bitch.
Now, Jamie, [who has since resigned, in what I would like to believe was an unrelated incident] is of the variety of coloured woman who has acquired no physical injury to her mouth.
She certainly did not fall on it; one would say while sitting on a beverage storage unit, behind someone’s backdoor.
And the tension that followed and subsequently built up on the ride to Claremont’s Salushi’s was enough to be cut with a knife… Apparently, much like my weave had been.
Jamie was gracious, however. Still, I drove with caution, gently humming Kumbaya. But my roots were sweating under the weight.
Until the spotlight was turned to me…
“Oh my poes, your hair look so kak…Why do your hair look so kak? That is plastic kak”,
This was repeated numerous times about my new accessory weave. I felt the entire M5 cringe for me.
“You don’t have to like it you know…” I tried to seem okay with the attack on my appearance.
No woman ever is.
Now, before I continue; allow me to say that women like this are the type of woman [and person] that I have tried to rid from my life since my awakening.
Anyone who is in the business of putting you down is taking up valuable space in your life. And they are wasting this space, and turning it toxic.
Since I left my abusive boyfriend, I will not tolerate anyone who thinks that the constant berating of who I am and the choices I make, no matter how ridiculous are subject to being insulted.
A real friend only builds.
“I think it looks nice”, Jamie lied.
By this time, I wanted to sew the weave onto my ‘fan’s bek.
I was ready to dye. I had hoekal turned red.
But this isolated hair conversation was not the straw that made me break the seal on my packet of Camel black.
And I, in the usual Shana fashion, will share it with you.
I am incapable of keeping things in. I dread locks.
My current introspective bubble that I have been floating in was rocked off course, in what I can only call a reality check of extremely subtle proportions.
I will fight the urge to use cheap puns, to describe my lifelong battle with my hair, but after about twenty minutes or so of paging frantically through my thesaurus, I will succumb to my most natural essence, and say that ‘Curls and Cocktails’ was the highlight of, if not the guide to me finding my roots in 2017.
A soul detangling, if you will.
Now, before you ask, “Since when does Sharna do reviews?, haai… boring”, I will tell you what I have been reiterating to my frenemies all week… Let me teach you, my sister.
It is very seldom that women, regardless of colour and denomination, use their platform to speak power, and positivity at each other, instead of saying negative things for an internet lifespan.
I have the desire for neither likes, comments nor subscriptions, if I cannot speak life into what I care about.
[Please like, comment and subscribe, though… Be lekker]
And this week, I feel almost obligated to share with you my innermost feelings about my unruly, powerful, non-conformist… hair.
We can discuss my colon next week.
Let’s call this the Pre-poo.
But on one condition….
Keep it clean.
Now, as a precursor to my experience at Cape Town Naturally’s event, my hair history is as follows.
As a child, my mother was an advocate of ‘n ‘vrou se hare is haar Kroon’, and as I had no kroon at the time, my mother was solely liable for all my hair care ventures.
Enter Sheen, Mediscalp, and hours of heat therapy. One of my most painful memories is still having to go to bed while wearing orange rollers… This makes the title of this blog so fitting, reminiscing on my own crown of thorns.
But yes, in the Christian walk up to Easter 2017, part of my inner awakening this Lent has been that my hair, without a fraction of a doubt, is the mirror to my soul.
While at high school, I wore my hair long and straight. And so it continued until college, where I enjoyed most things long and straight…. Like my drinks… of course.
Until my first very public, very embarrassing break-up.
I remember looking in the mirror that night as I hacked off my mane, piece by excruciating piece, till I resembled a blonde Sonic. Ironically, still very blue.
[Why didn’t you love me, Joel?]
I entered my morning Yoga Class at AFDA, wholly convinced that my newly acquired Mohawk would be seen as edgy and fashion forward.
Thank God for white people, because they were still in a transitional phase where they didn’t still talk kak about kroes hair. Marike and Daniella complimented me without making too much eye-contact. But my best friend at the time, Clifford was much less forgiving.
A simple; “Are you jus, what kak did you catch on with your hair” was enough to send me into dramatic tears, without me even knowing I cared that much about my locks.
But as I would later come to realise, this was only the beginning of my downward hair spiral….. [That one was 80% unintentional].
Trichotillomania. That’s what Doctor Vicki called it. [Actually, that is what all doctors call it, but there are so few literary devices left for me to use, to add an air of drama, while discussing hair].
I will skip repeating all the things I have mentioned before regarding my bipolar, OCD and intermittent depression, and move straight to where the pain from my break up, the stress of college and being told that my father was dying [That nigger is still outchea living, mind you], resulted in me compulsively pulling the hair out of my scalp.
And also, out of my pubic area.
Yes, it is as painful as it sounds.
I would also resort to breaking it off, cutting it at random, and then crying on the bathroom floor, while I rubbed my fingers through the off-cuts.
When I was admitted to Crescent Clinic in 2007, I merely had a fringe, of which only now I see the irony.
Fringe: a band of contrasting brightness or darkness produced by diffraction or interference of light. A strip of false colour in an optical image.
A poesetjie hair, mostly gemoer… sometimes stuck to the forehead of ethnic males. Mainly Muslim boys whose daddies didn’t marry into Islamic royalty.
In either instance, it is both deceptive, and un-pretty.
Another Zinger of a recollection is when Joel appeared during visiting hours at the clinic, clutching a teddy he had given to me months before.
He sat down next to me on the fountain in the visiting area and I remember the way he stared at my hair.
“Yor Shana what happened to you? Where is the girl I fell in love with? I can’t tell my brasse where I am tonight. It’s embarrassing”.
I agreed with him, of course.
“Even your hair look verdala.”
Considering that this conversation has stuck with me for ten years, even though I was on heavy anti-psychotics at the time, it is safe to say that it imprinted on my self-confidence, and self worth. My perception of my hair and beauty had forever changed.
And I likened my hair to whether or not I was happy.
And I likened my happiness to whether or not I was in a relationship.
And at my lowest and highest points, at utter degradation, and then supreme liberation… I shaved my head.
Again, and again.
Each time I felt unhappy, or unnoticed, I shaved off all of my hair.
It wasn’t straight enough, or pretty enough. I have Asian features and a kroeskop… I always felt an odd anger at my dad for also not marrying into royalty.
And then, on a random, insignificant day, I saw my sister’s old friend Amanda Cooke, posting on Facebook about her hair journey, and how she loved being a BossieKop.
And funnily enough, women with similar hair, previously deemed ‘untidy’ unkempt’, were agreeing and saying ‘I love my kroeskop.
Our hair deserved to be appreciated.
Our coarse, previously disadvantaged, NATURAL hair.
And I felt something stir inside me, which is actually very significant, because let me tell you, I am emotionally dead inside.
After several back and forth’s with Amanda, and stalking her blog http://www.capetowncurly.com/ [Shameless gevriet koep for free products … ], I agreed to join the first event of 2017.
To be honest, I really just wanted to get ideas of what to do with my very short, very blonde crown for my wedding.
What did I expect?
A klompie kroeskoppe rationalising not getting genuines at birth.
But oh, was I wrong.
I entered the room, and my jaw dropped at the amount of natural beauty that grabbed me from the doorway.
And at that moment so many things made sense.
I realised that all of the women in the room looked familiar.
Turns out, I was surrounded by women I saw in the media, making waves on a daily basis.
Kaylee Kruser from Heart 104 was there with breakfast show producer, Amy-Rae Rispel
Carissa Cupido was there too. She had just won the TLC presenter search, and was also a presenter at GoodHope Fm.
Actresses, performers, inspirational speakers and models graced the room.
And that made me realise that as a woman, the journey to success in each aspect of your life, even your career ,…. is loving yourself, just as you are… Kroeskop, big nose, skew teeth…
Just as you are … naturally.
But of course, that was a short-lived victory when Amanda sent me the sole photo of myself from the night:
A visual representation of my drinking problem.
I did say…. ‘and cocktails’.
I guess having kroes hair is a Black Label.
Regardless, my hair is a crown….
Can’t you see how I’m owning that Castle?
Love yourself, my Sistah ❤
PS: My name isn’t Sharna