CREATIVE NONFICTION
CHELSEY CLAMMER
DEAR DREADLOCKS
Dear Dreadlocks,
I know, I’m sorry you must suffer the sad fate of being attached to a white chick’s head. Who lives in Texas. Your wool-like quality. The heat. Not a good combo. Plus, could she be called “Dreadneck” anymore? At least we’re near the hippie haven of Austin.
Either way, I feel like I need to set some things straight here. Because we’ve had a strained and tenuous relationship lately and I took measures to end that this morning. I’m sure you’re hurt by that. Strained because your ass-length existence has been weighing heavily on my neck. I mean, you’ve grown so much in the past twenty years (awwwww—remember when you were just three-inch long babies back in college?!) that your now-three-pound status is seriously putting some strain on my neck. You’re hurting me, basically. (Back at you, I guess?) Tenuous because your weight is making your roots weak and a little gnarly looking. I had to cut one of you off last week because you were holding on by just a small collection of soft, fine hairs.
But here’s the complexity—I absolutely adore you and I hated when I had to let go of one of your tribe. I identify as myself with you. I mean, just consider all that we’ve been through together. I’m not just talking about your wool blanket-like love in the winter (and meanness in the summer). How I can wrap you around my neck like a scarf, or twist you into a bun to create a fluffy pillow for some Barton Springs pool-side napping.
I mean all that we’ve experienced together. Your tips were there the morning my dad drank himself to death. What could potentially be your hands witnessed my college graduation when Dad was too dead to do so. The elbows saw moves to Chicago and Minneapolis, which is when I realized dreads are best in cold weather—such warmth you provide. The shoulders got a nice sturdy stay in Colorado, eventually growing to the point that your heart experienced a marriage. Then, a move back to Texas and five years later, your abdomen witnessed my husband’s kick to my stomach that led to a divorce.
And the rest of you? All lanky legs since then. Even through the mental breakdowns and the year-long encounter with a sociopath in Waco (stereotypes perhaps exist for a reason), then the escape from Waco to Austin where I finally lived single and alone; through the growth spurts of my writing career and taking on the task of being a mom to an eight-week-old puppy who would chew on you and play tug of war with you—even through all of that, you’ve stayed strong.
Too strong.
Too heavy.
But I don’t want to cut you. It’s not just about the stories; it’s about your coverage. My body. How I was anorexic and underweight this past year. So much pain I tried to starve out of myself until I realized that was the problem, not the solution. With a ton of therapy and support groups (and a body that was screaming for food), I started eating again. You witnessed me gain back that healthy weight as you too grew throughout the year. Grew like a blanket covering this now-healthy body I’ve been so ashamed to show the world. I mean, live as a skeleton for a year and any padding under the skin feels reprehensible. But I’ve done the hard work of letting go of those emotions, and now I realize that it’s time to let go of the ways in which I allow you to shroud my body from the world.
Which is to say I need people to see me when they see me, not just see you. Yes, I’m a 41-year-old white chick with dreadlocks in Texas, but I’m also Chelsey—a living, breathing, human being with a body that is now proud to be alive.
I walked my now-five-year-old dog this morning and I was in pain for most of it. I could feel your tips swish against my ass, and my neck pull and sway with each tug of your weight, causing my shoulder and arm to go numb all the way down to my thumb. I returned to my apartment and knew it was time.
Snip, snip, snip…17 times.
Not all three feet of you. Just eight inches. Just 0.78 pounds (yes, I weighed you on my kitchen scale because how could I not?). Just up to what could be your shoulders. Don’t worry, I kept your cut-off parts. Couldn’t bear to throw them in the trash after all they have bared witness to. Who knows what I’ll do with them. Probably something crafty. Dreadnecks are like that.
You now dangle just at the bottom of my rib cage and, my darling dreadlocks, I’m sorry we had to shed eight inches of stories, but it’s okay. We can make new ones together. We’ll keep going. Keep growing. It’s what we do.
Love you,
Chelsey
Chelsey Clammer is the award-winning author of the essay collections Human Heartbeat Detected (Red Hen Press, 2022), Circadian (Red Hen Press, 2017), and BodyHome (Hopewell Publications, 2015). Her work has appeared in Salon, The Rumpus, Brevity, and McSweeney’s, among many others. She teaches online writing classes with WOW! Women On Writing and is a freelance editor. www.chelseyclammer.com
