When I first decided to loc my hair, I thought it would be a simple beauty choice. I was tired of the endless styling: the products, the heat, and the pressure to always keep my hair “done.” There’s birthday hair, graduation hair, vacation hair, protective styles, the trim, and even giving your hair “a break” after braids. In other words, a constant panic—and I wanted out.
What I didn’t realize at the time was that I wasn’t just making a decision about my hair, I was entering into a commitment with myself. Locs, I quickly learned, are not instant gratification. They include a process. And that process ended up teaching me more about patience than any relationship ever could.
At first, I romanticized the decision. I had visions of long, flowing locs cascading down my back. I thought of the women in my community, the aunties and cousins, whose locs seemed to tell stories before they even opened their mouths. To me, locs represented freedom. What I didn’t anticipate was how humbling the early stages would be. The budding phase was fuzzy, uneven, and full of uncertainty. I’d look in the mirror some mornings and wonder if I had made a mistake. I wasn’t yet who I imagined myself to be, but I was fine with the process.
That’s when the lesson of patience first introduced itself. Unlike a quick protective style or a fresh silk press, locs resist immediacy. They force you to live in every single stage. And just like in love, I wanted to skip ahead to the part where things looked good, where everything felt certain, where growth was obvious. But locs won’t let you cheat time. They make you slow down, surrender, and trust that something is happening—even when you can’t yet see it.
Patience with my locs wasn’t passive. It was an active practice. And I’m talking mentally—especially when it was time for an interview, a night out with the girls, or maybe even a date night. Everything felt perfect but my hair would ruin the entire effort. Little did I know, that was my internal struggle with beauty standards. And how did I remedy that? I gave in. I combed them out after 5 months—immediately regretting it as soon as I felt the tightness of the cornrows I followed up with. Three months later, I found myself restarting my loc journey yet again.
I learned so much about myself in the midst of that decision, as it forced me to confront internal struggles head-on. In a society that still clings to Eurocentric ideals, Black hair is often politicized, scrutinized, and misunderstood. Locs especially carry weight seen as too “rebellious” in some spaces, too “unkempt” in others. I remember the way people would comment, “So are you going to keep them?” in the early stages, as if they were waiting for me to give up. I internalized that pressure at first. I wanted them to look “neat” and to fit a mold of acceptability. But locs are their own teachers. They resist conformity by nature, sprouting in directions you can’t predict, frizzing when they please, thickening on their own terms.
Cliché as it may sound, an impromptu visit to Jamaica deepened this love. Being there felt like stepping into a place where Black women weren’t just accepted but celebrated. The men especially had a way of making it known, reminding me, without hesitation, that our beauty exists exactly as it is. My hair, my skin, and my presence were enough. It was a jarring contrast to the coded comments and side-eyes I’d grown used to back home. In Jamaica, I felt affirmed in the kind of way that made me stop questioning and start owning my locs with pride. Even the freedom to swim in the ocean, rinse my hair, and let it air dry before heading to dinner without a second thought. Not a second thought about my hair.
In embracing embodiment instead of assimilation, I learned a different definition of beauty. One rooted in authenticity, not perfection. A retwist is anything but a priority these days. Today I embrace the wild Lauryn Hill look, the stray hairs, big frizz, and unevenness as proof of life and growth. They made me think about how much of Black womanhood has been about controlling, taming, and smoothing ourselves into acceptability. It’s been liberating to let go of that pressure—to walk into a room with my hair, exactly as it wants to be, and still feel whole and beautiful.
The parallels to relationships were impossible to ignore. I’d been in situations where I wanted someone to grow faster, love harder, or meet me at a pace they weren’t ready for. I wanted control, timelines, guarantees. And there have been times that I sabotaged growth. But whether it’s hair or the human heart, you can’t force it. You can’t manipulate it. And if you feel it deep within, you can always start over. All you can do is nurture, show up consistently, and trust the journey. And unlike some of those relationships, although my locs tested me, they always gave back exactly what I put in.
There’s a spiritual dimension to locs that deepened my patience. Across cultures—African, Caribbean, Rastafarian—locs have symbolized more than just hair. They’ve been tied to strength, divinity, and sacred energy. In wearing them, I felt connected to something bigger than me, a continuum of the Black people who carried their heritage on their heads.
Now, only months short of 3 years into my journey, I know my locs will never be “neat.” They’re too nuanced, too perfect as is. They keep evolving, shifting, and surprising me. Some days they feel heavy. Other days they’re light and playful. Just They’ve grown with me into womanhood: stretching, thickening, locking tighter with every phase of my life. They’ve become a living record of my patience, my resilience, and my ability to let things unfold as they should.
I no longer look for quick fixes or instant gratification. I know that what’s worth having will take time, will test me, and will reward me only if I’m consistent. My loc journey taught me to surrender. It taught me how to sit in the awkward and uncomfortable phases. This is the commitment that has never failed me.