Bad Hair

Besides all the suffering I endured because of my bad hair, some moments from my early childhood are perfectly etched in my memory: the day "my" cat didn't show up to eat the leftover food I left on my plate; the day the rain arrived so quickly it caught me by surprise in the backyard…

I also remember the day when that wretched man my brother-in-law— which to this day I don't understand how my older sister chose that jerk and, without a doubt, deserves a chapter of its own — sexually harassed my other sister and even said, among other obscenities, that I would be "gay" when I grew up.
And of course, the day my father was confronted about having another woman and grabbed my sister's head to try and smash it against the corner of the bunk bed.

These memories are as vivid as the smell of henna that used to wake me up on Saturday mornings.
I even remember the Pyrex dish—a piece that lasted for over 40 years and would be historic in the museum of my life…if my one-year-old daughter hadn't smashed it two months ago!—where they prepared that menacing goo.

Yes! I remember exactly the phrase "be careful, it'll burn you!" and how I wondered how they managed to apply that stuff to my hair, which was so unbearably hot on my fingertips—the strong smell of which, although unforgettable, left no fond memories.

They were young and vain to submit to that procedure... but I, the youngest and last-born son, besides seeing no logic whatsoever in that ritual, even hated it when they insisted on combing my hair.
None of the reasons they gave me (cleanliness, beauty…) managed — and this continues to this day! — to make me like, even for a moment, the damned kinky hair I was born with: the driest and curliest hair of all of Dona Nair's children!

Hair Hatred and Innocence

This hatred for hair was innate, present since the time of my purest innocence.
I remember when I used to imagine that my cousin Tania, who was studying medicine, might one day be able to have a "hair transplant".

To gauge my level of innocence, I think that cousin of mine, blonde by the way, was one of the first crushes of my life.
Whenever she arrived somewhere I was… I would run to hide, even under the bed! I can't explain the childishness that overcame me, but I suspect I found her so beautiful that I was embarrassed to be near her…

My Terror: The Barber!

“"Barber" was a terrifying term, not because of the scissors, but because of the comb he used to "untangle" that damned bad hair.

I remember an episode where, taken to a strange barber by the random figure of my father, I was so "stretched" that I spent the entire weekend with terrible headaches! I even had to take medicine, because I don't know what that tormentor did to my scalp, but it was so bad that it even triggered a fever... a high one!

I must be quite old, because I'm here trying to remember and I only recall the appearance of the "machine" facilitator during my adolescence.
I think I was born so poor that this wasn't common in my field: all I can say is that, when it seemed things were going to get better, that damned puberty came along, and with it, the first signs of a... chronic folliculitis acute which would cause me much shame, pain, and discomfort for a good part of the years I lived!

A Wrong Diagnosis

Ah! Don't think that the diagnosis, which I handed over so readily in the previous paragraph, was easy.
In the initial symptoms, it was thought to be some kind of allergic reaction to the barber's clippers.

When opened, the sores attracted pesky little flies, and I myself felt as if I were rotting, not to mention that all the pillowcases would get stained with blood while I slept.
When closed, the scabs would stick to various hairs on my body, giving it a patchy, almost leprous appearance… and that's how I entered adolescence, as if the bullying about being overweight wasn't enough!

Poor, Immature, and Exiled

The most common option was a military career: without a father at home to support a more advanced education, my sister — burdened with worries and facing financial difficulties — enrolled me in a pre-military school in 8th grade at age 13.

That's a story for another day, because being black, poor, nearsighted (a factor cited for failing the EPCAR and Naval College entrance exams, even though I passed the knowledge test), and with that problem on my head, at 16 years old I passed..., without “quotas”, in the public competition for EEAer, having been emancipated and held responsible for my own actions ever since.

Since the topic here is hair, I spent two years "dodging" the strict hair standards imposed on all students: not by growing my hair longer, but by cutting it SHORT, almost bald!
I never, ever used any of the white pillows or pillowcases provided and regularly inspected as part of the tidiness and organization of the lodgings: I carried a "battle pillow" from home every week, whose waterproof covering prevented blood from my wounds from staining any bedding...

From Guaratinguetá to Manaus

I arrived in Manaus completely orphaned and immature, at 18 years old — I survived by the skin of my teeth, thinking that, as my brother, He, too, would die in that city.
I arrived in August and by December I had already made my first request to transfer back to Rio de Janeiro (a desperate request that was only fulfilled four and a half years later).

The fact is that, living out of professional obligation in the land where my brother had been murdered, I simply hated everything and almost everyone, living in absolute unhappiness whose frustration left me emotionally and socially crippled.
Only after some time did I realize how much all of this contributed to my maturity.

The city's modest size at the time ended up promoting a "celebrity" of anything that was different: this was my case when, in July 1994, before any Ronaldinho or Alexandre Frota, I was interviewed by "A Crítica" about my revolutionary "style," becoming the cover of the Sunday edition, with my photo appearing alongside those of people like Patrícia Pillar and Edmundo, the Animal.

In fact, I only shaved my entire head about two years after graduation, because the "student mentality" wasn't easily overcome, mainly due to the unpreparedness of my first boss, an officer, also black, who, to confront the prejudices he himself suffered, took extreme positions within the hierarchy.

Despite being a friend of my late brother, he was the second of the four most unpleasant and disagreeable figures who permeated my military career: this is one of the reasons why the word "announcer" appears in the news item above instead of "air traffic controller"...

Finally, it was also during this exile that I built some of the friendships that will last a lifetime, and to conclude, I'll leave you with a video whose content I no longer entirely agree with, but which couldn't be left out of a document where I talk about "Manaus" and "hair":

My Hair Redemption

For many years I felt ashamed of the blood-stained pillowcases, embarrassed by the flies buzzing around… in truth, I already had such a terrible self-image that I was just waiting for the day when those wounds would, I don't know, take root, become cancerous, and reach my brain!

But then, around 2008, my goddaughter and wedding godmother, Bruna Pietronave, gave me one of the greatest gifts I've ever received in my life: a professional actress who had worked for Globo and Record, at the time her image was also used in promotional material for the Sheila Bellotti Hair Center, earning her the right to a complete treatment, and she graciously remembered me!

I'm sure Dr. Sheila, who was expecting to treat the beautiful hair of an actress, must have been astonished when I arrived as her replacement, with my head full of sores!

Diagnosis in Germany and Dr. Azulay

I perfectly remember my first consultation, when she used a kind of telescope to take pictures of my scalp—she saw, among other things, that up to EIGHT strands of hair were coming out of a single pore!!—and, after that interview, she asked me to wait, as she would be taking my material for study… in Germany!!

I was called in as soon as she returned: the case would now be treated with medication, and that, I confess, didn't cheer me up much: I had already lost count of how many creams, pastes, liquids... so many things I had put on those sores.

She then gave me a prescription personally written by Dr. Azulay — who, despite my complete ignorance, is renowned and respected in pharmaceutical circles.

It was funny, the next day, handing the prescription in at the compounding pharmacy and seeing the attendants wrinkling their noses, calling for the more senior employees…
Finally, the person in charge came to me and said that that formula didn't exist.

I made a sad face and, I remember well, when I mentioned the name "Azulay," the change in the man's expression: it was as if I were handing him a challenge!
In the end, the solution was ready in seven days, had a slight smell of cabbage, and stung quite a bit when applied.

There was, in fact, a significant improvement in the first few weeks, and that made me more excited than ever. However, even before my first follow-up appointment, the sores reopened.
It was a real disappointment.

The Ultimatum: Laser or Nothing

During the second consultation, I remember the references to "acidity" and "alkalinity," as well as a prescription that even included ashes in its composition. I found it all quite extravagant, but, disillusioned with myself, I proposed a deal to Dr. Sheila:

I would meticulously follow the entire proposed treatment, but if, after a whole year, there were no results… I would undergo complete laser hair removal on my scalp!

She was shocked—because I believe I must have been the first crazy person to request such a procedure—and said, somewhat dismayed, "But... you're going to go bald...?"“

A full year of treatment followed, and, as I suspected given my poor hair condition, the problem didn't improve, leading me to inquire about when the sessions would begin and how much they would cost, receiving a "please wait" as an answer.
Considering the clinic's prime location and stellar clientele, I was worried I wouldn't be able to afford the fees they might ask for the sessions.

After a fortnight she called me and said she had met with her partners and that she couldn't offer the free service, but, because my hair was a matter that went far beyond mere aesthetics, she would only charge a symbolic amount… and, without a doubt, that's what she did.

The routine for the monthly sessions was: arrive, wash your hair, apply ice packs to the area, and… FIRE!!!
Yes, the smell of burnt chicken feathers — only those from the old days, from the time when chickens were killed and plucked over a fire, remember that stench! — filled the place, and the pain of the laser hitting everything that was moist — blood vessels, veins, arteries… especially those in the temples! — are unforgettable memories.
Without a doubt, it hurt... and it hurt a lot!

It was said that later on, I would need "reinforcements" in laser hair removal sessions to keep my bald head smooth, but, aside from limited resources, I've been coping well with the downy hair that appears, removing it along with the other hairs when shaving.

Final Reflections on "Bad Hair"“

After everything I've been through, there are still three things I can say about hair:

1. My hair was BAD for me.. It did me harm while it existed, and no one can say otherwise.
   When I see someone sporting a mane or dreadlocks, all I can think about is the amount of work it takes.
2. Trauma and Relationships. The trauma led me to never date women with more unruly hair. I fulfilled my dream of marrying a blonde—a former model!
   I love seeing her hair on her head, but I hate finding it in the drain or in her food!
3. The New Generation. My daughter's hair is "less bad" than mine. My wife took over the hair care using specific techniques. Low poo e No poo…it's a difficult task (in which I am absolutely incapable of taking part) whose result ends up being barely visible in the first few years and will only blossom when the hair grows, but I know it's well done because I've always felt how fragrant my baby's hair is… always!

The other day I was outraged by some relatives who heard that the baby doesn't use shampoo and, therefore, deduced that her hair must be smelly and even causing complaints at school!
Even worse was hearing someone say that if you take a brush and detangle them… they'll become straight!!

In short: we don't need prejudice and racial discrimination coming from the streets, because we already have enough sprouting up, sometimes, within our own families.

The Unexpected Return… of Health (From the Inside Out)

Today, my bald head is my trademark and my freedom. But I've learned that skin and body health begins long before creams and lasers: it begins in the gut.

Folliculitis, after all, is an inflammation, an imbalance. If I had had access to the knowledge I have today about intestinal dysbiosis back then, perhaps my suffering would have been less.

It's not just for those who want to have more beautiful and strong hair (unlike me, who prefers the practicality of a razor): Zenkkô Juice is a food that helps anyone fight dysbiosis and its inflammatory consequences.

I created a diary with short videos during my first 42 days of use, and I invite you to watch it and, more than that, have your own experience:

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Thank you for reading this far!