At first, I couldn’t understand it. Why were these men concerned with their appearance in prison? Who were they trying to impress? It took me several months to uncover their secret, and even longer to believe the hype.

In prison, the only person you need to impress is yourself.

When the judge sentenced me to three years, I was at my heaviest, approaching 200 pounds. I felt a heavy sadness, like a lone boulder or a beached whale. My hair, in which I’d previously taken pride, became nappy and unruly. I had gradually given up on self-care because, frankly, I had given up on the future and on myself.

I probably looked as bad as I felt, though I can’t say for sure because I avoided mirrors as if they could transmit COVID. In the county jail, I was surprised to find that most men looked as down on their luck as I did. Absurdly, I had expected fit, Hollywood types, akin to what I had seen on television.

I found comfort in their appearance. The pressure I felt about being out of shape and apathetic to fix it eased a bit during my ten days in county. During what passed for recreation, we were allowed an hour or so for phone calls or showers. Some days I did neither. Wallowing in my misery felt oddly satisfying; and at that moment, I desperately wanted to feel good. 

After transferring to a Level 2, minimum security prison, I noticed a distinct shift. I still saw people who only slept, yelled at their girlfriends on the phone, and ate. But a new breed also caught my eye. These men put effort into their appearance and their presentation.

“What a great waste of time,” I thought. “This is prison, not a beauty contest.” Maybe I was self-conscious, probably a bit jealous. Some of these guys looked great — not movie star-great, but much better than me. They were in shape, working out constantly and receiving haircuts every week. They even disappeared the wrinkles in their tan uniforms, a mysterious kind of witchcraft that still eludes me.

Not only did these men stand out physically. Something about the way they carried themselves cast a golden radiance. Their obvious confidence empowered them, and it showed.

Then there was me: a cheap, lumpy chocolate pudding, walking with my head down, obsessing about my worsening skin and how my body jiggled with each step. I hated that. I hated myself. 

Whatever those men had, I wanted it too.

Once I resolved to make a change, I took certain self-care steps that helped me boost my self-esteem while in prison. 

First, I focused on my body. Although I was no stranger to exercise, I had gained almost 30 pounds in the 18 months before my stay in prison. Once I became serious during recreation, my muscles remembered the movements quickly. I forced myself into a groove and dropped 20 pounds in three months. Not only did I feel better physically, but my overall mood improved. Working out, I realized, was like riding a bicycle. You never really forget.

Next, I worked on my hair. Initially, I wore my hair as I did in the world: in its natural kinky cloud atop my head. However, that took time and product, both of which were in short supply in prison. Keeping up with my hair became a hassle, and I needed to figure out something quickly, or I’d have to cut the hair that had become as much a part of me as my tongue or fingers.

A saving grace came in the form of a toothless white guy with frosted tips who knew how to braid. He braided my hair in cornrows regularly for a dollar — or two soup packets — until he went home. At that point my bunkie took over, an appointment which recurs every three weeks. 

Though the braids were born of necessity and convenience, the hairstyle marked a fundamental change. After some time, the braids became my signature. Whenever I took them out to wash my hair, inmates and staff made comments like, “Who’s the new guy?” One officer quipped, “What kind of hairstyle is that? Brillo pad?”

Such a small effort — braiding my hair — gave me a major confidence boost. People thought I looked good, and, eventually, I actually did. I walked with my back a little straighter and my head held higher. 

Soon I started showering every day and using what little cosmetics were available to me. Inside, it may feel pointless — even cumbersome — to get out of bed for anything, food included. But, for me, smelling clean and having clear skin were mental game-changers.

The most daunting step I took towards taking care of myself was asking for help. As a man, that was the most difficult. Society teaches men to hide their true feelings. The only acceptable male emotion is anger. Unlearning those social constructs was essential to my personal growth and healing. I learned that it was OK to feel crappy, it was OK to ask for help, and it was more than OK to express your feelings. I took advantage of professionals and programs designed to equip me with the tools to help myself, and I’m better for it. 

Self-care in prison will look different depending on where you live and what you have access to, and what you need in your life. But it’s essential to enduring your time during incarceration and keeping yourself afloat in a sea of negativity and vitriol. 

Prison is a harrowing journey, but it does not have to beat you down. If you take care of yourself, you, too, can boost your self-esteem. So many men I’ve met in prison have been kind, humane and compassionate. 

But there is a quote by the writer Jack Kornfield that comes to mind: “If your compassion does not include yourself, it is incomplete.” 

My advice: Make self-care part of your daily routine. Commit it to muscle memory, whether it’s as simple as washing your face or taking time every day to pray, or something more complex.

It’s been over a year since I decided to take care of myself. I cannot remember the last time I’ve felt so good. You deserve to feel good, too.