Why My Tresses Oppress
REMEMBER: It's only "good" if it does exactly what you want it to...This is just something I had to get off my back...or rather...let grow down it.
"Why do you wear your hair long now?", was a question posed of me by a lifelong friend. "I'm starting my own revolution" I casually answered. But there is NOTHING casual about the revolution going on atop my head...or how it has effected other people's heads; even those who do not know me.
THE AFRO WIG
With a warm hot comb she would straighten her hair and wear it long. She stopped going to the salon to get her hair straightened because some young women with afros threw a bucket of water on her head. After dating an 'enlightened brother' she realized that no one would take her studies of African History and pronouncements of "Black Love" seriously if she wore her hair silky and long, so she cut her hair and picked out a 'fro. It was disappointing. She lived in LA and the heat moistened her brow, her scalp and her hair; this caused a collection of silky curls to lie on her head. This just wouldn't do. She tried numerous hair products- even hairsprays- to prevent the regression of her bushy afro to curly locks, to no avail. A friend of hers suggested that she try an afro wig. "Is that being real?" she inquired. "Yeah girl! Plenty of sista's buy wigs for a perfect 'fro." My mother bought one and was quite satisfied! She had a whole 'wardrobe' of afro wigs after two years, but her favorite one would be her undoing.
As my mother was 'getting down' at a hot party, with a righteous soul brother, a young woman who was enamoured of said soul brother- realizing that my mother had on a wig- pulled...it...off. My mother was horrified! "My hair was growing back and sweaty and curly" my mother related to me when I got older. "The guy was amused and said 'Why you hiding all that pretty hair under a wig?' I couldn't answer, I just ran out." My mother's war with her hair was a little different than most African-American women's; she felt she didn't quite 'belong' because of her hair texture and tried often to 'downplay' the Malagasy/Indonesian mixture that was so evident in her hair and complexion. She didn't realize, until she was MUCH older how her not feeling 'black enough' had been taken out on her hair. She never wore her hair long and often lied to other women about having chemical straighteners in her hair.
This 'shame' was passed down to us consciously and subconsciously: my younger sister wore synthetic 'attachments' to cover her wavy tresses in order to fit in with the other weave wearing population of South Florida (until recently); my older sister will not allow her hair to grow passed shoulder length after having hair passed her butt until she was fourteen; and for years I was the same way. But my hair color still incited issues.
PARDON MY COLOR
When I was four, it began for me. "Why did you dye that child's hair?" a nosey and erroneous woman asked my mother. "Excuse me?" "Why you put that red in that child's hair? I'm surprised her hair hasn't fallen out- eew! it's so burnt out it looks lighter in the front!-" "I did NOT put any chemicals or dyes in my child's hair! Her father has red hair!" my mother barked, "as IF it is any of your business!" As I got older many assumed but never verbalized that I dyed my hair. Only beauticians were amazed. "Is that a birth mark?" "No, my mother has jet black hair and my father has strawberry blond hair...this (I would say pointing to the streak in the front of my head and the highlights throughout) is what I got out of it..." "It's really pretty!" I would humbly thank them for the compliment and secretly pray the woman in the next chair would stop staring needles at me. By the time I began attending college in Florida, the sun was bleaching my hair strawberry blonde in the front and fiery auburn in the back. It was getting out of hand; that's when I began putting in brown rinses.
SAYING BAD THINGS ABOUT 'GOOD HAIR'
But curly hair is noticeable in a place where most women are fighting to kept their hair from 'going back home' due to the humidity. "Is that a curl?" "No my hair...just...curls." "You mixed?" "Something like that.." With all the women walking around with curly hair, my hair texture shouldn't have been an issue. But it was made an issue (along with my complexion) due to what was coming out of my mouth. All that yelling about Afrocentricity, Ujamaa (cooperative economics) and racial unity got me noticed for the wrong reason. In a region where lighter skin was treated like 'gold', and people felt being mistaken for Latina instead of African-American was a compliment, one seemed to be protesting too much. At a historically Black college I was told "But you don't even look Black..." by another member of the Student Council when I asked why we didn't have a Black History celebration planned for the third meeting in a row. My mother's 'curse' was visiting upon me. Because she never dealt with what was going on inside her head about what was on top on her head, I hadn't learned how to counter that sort of negativity. That is, until I met a White British guy with dreadlocks.
My mother was so excited when I brought him home; she viewed locks as a truly natural hairstyle and realized if he was able to 'tangle' his hair, she could too. In all her years of pining for locks, she was too ashamed to go to a professional; her first inquiry into the how-to of locks ended poorly. "How did you get your hair to twist and lock?" she'd asked innocently. "Why?" "I would like to lock up my hair-" "HA! It will unravel before you get any length!" the woman had lied to her. She also lied and said my mother would have to damage her hair in order for the locks to tangle. My poor mother went away feeling she didn't belong once again. In him coming over and helping my mother with her new hairdo, she asked him if he would cut her hair so she could have shorter flirtier locks. Once the process was done, she seemed so happy...until they started growing. "Should I cut them?" she'd asked me, "Isn't the point of locks 'no maintenance'?" I inquired back. "But I haven't had long hair in years...". That is when I found out about the afro wigs and why she encouraged us not to wear our hair long. I felt her oppression as a girl: when other people teased me, they always reached for my long curly ponytails to yank.
What was so wrong with our hair?
"Nothing is wrong with you all's hair because you DON'T run from the rain!", a friend revealed to me (a cultural reference to the stereotype that African-American women supposedly do not want to get their hair wet because it will become kinky and coarse). "You all have the grade of hair that most people want. Remember 'School Daze'? The problem is not you all, it's them and what THAT kind of hair represents." My hair had been worn as a badge of shame of the 'dilution' in us. I would often tell others that being 'mixed' didn't affect your afrocentricity, but after all the drama with hair, did I believe it? And what did it say about my love and loyalty to the idea of equality within my diverse cultural background toward those family members that were not of African descent?
EVOLUTION OF MY REVOLUTION
My complexion is linked with my hair color (red hair and freckles) and my hair length- it seems- was forever to be determined by an illogical 'balancing' within my race. Those who didn't seem to grow long lengths were allowed to oppress those of us who did while secretly yearning for what we had. I began an experiment. I began to let my hair grow longer and only got the ends clipped for split ends. My mother too allowed her locks to grow. When I would go out with my mother and her locks were free, even those who knew she was my mother made much-to-do about my hair length but not hers. "Is that weave?" some would ask, whether I was wearing my hair curly or flat ironed. "If you don't cut your hair the ends will catch in your clothes because of the perm and break off.." "But I don't have a perm." I would retort, bringing a frown to their faces. "Long hair isn't in!" one young woman told me as she held a magazine with three Black actresses on it wearing lengthy extensions. "Dare to be different!" I answered.
Except for windy days, my hair is neat when flat ironed straight. I keep my hair cut in layers to give it structure and volume but it still seems to 'offend'. My mother's locks are now down to her derriere; my younger sister cropped her hair short and simply moistures it, showing off her texture by wearing it soft and curly; my older sister is still timid about long hair and "professionalism", but I'm working on her. And me? As long as I can put a bun on the top of my head, there is no such thing as 'too long'. Neither my hair color, length nor style will ever define me or my beliefs again. I hope by growing my hair...down to there...I can get some of the sisters to respect that some Black women enjoy having long hair, not because of who they are trying to look like or be, but for natural reasons. My flat iron is no different than the henna my mother dips her locks in- a tool of versatility. My hair is like earrings: some wear the same ones everyday and like Beyonce's chandelier earrings, my hair is just a little longer.
I was re-reading a letter I sent in to Essence Magazine years ago in answer to another reader's letter RE: Why the stylist had put weave in Jada Pinkett-Smith's hair. "I like her hair short and natural" the reader wrote. The editor explained that Jada's hair was all her own and they simply blow dried it "to give it a softer wave." My multi-culti background is no longer a subject of secrecy, I am happy to say.
"Why do you wear your hair long now?", was a question posed of me by a lifelong friend. "I'm starting my own revolution" I casually answered. But there is NOTHING casual about the revolution going on atop my head...or how it has effected other people's heads; even those who do not know me.
THE AFRO WIG
With a warm hot comb she would straighten her hair and wear it long. She stopped going to the salon to get her hair straightened because some young women with afros threw a bucket of water on her head. After dating an 'enlightened brother' she realized that no one would take her studies of African History and pronouncements of "Black Love" seriously if she wore her hair silky and long, so she cut her hair and picked out a 'fro. It was disappointing. She lived in LA and the heat moistened her brow, her scalp and her hair; this caused a collection of silky curls to lie on her head. This just wouldn't do. She tried numerous hair products- even hairsprays- to prevent the regression of her bushy afro to curly locks, to no avail. A friend of hers suggested that she try an afro wig. "Is that being real?" she inquired. "Yeah girl! Plenty of sista's buy wigs for a perfect 'fro." My mother bought one and was quite satisfied! She had a whole 'wardrobe' of afro wigs after two years, but her favorite one would be her undoing.
As my mother was 'getting down' at a hot party, with a righteous soul brother, a young woman who was enamoured of said soul brother- realizing that my mother had on a wig- pulled...it...off. My mother was horrified! "My hair was growing back and sweaty and curly" my mother related to me when I got older. "The guy was amused and said 'Why you hiding all that pretty hair under a wig?' I couldn't answer, I just ran out." My mother's war with her hair was a little different than most African-American women's; she felt she didn't quite 'belong' because of her hair texture and tried often to 'downplay' the Malagasy/Indonesian mixture that was so evident in her hair and complexion. She didn't realize, until she was MUCH older how her not feeling 'black enough' had been taken out on her hair. She never wore her hair long and often lied to other women about having chemical straighteners in her hair.
This 'shame' was passed down to us consciously and subconsciously: my younger sister wore synthetic 'attachments' to cover her wavy tresses in order to fit in with the other weave wearing population of South Florida (until recently); my older sister will not allow her hair to grow passed shoulder length after having hair passed her butt until she was fourteen; and for years I was the same way. But my hair color still incited issues.
PARDON MY COLOR
When I was four, it began for me. "Why did you dye that child's hair?" a nosey and erroneous woman asked my mother. "Excuse me?" "Why you put that red in that child's hair? I'm surprised her hair hasn't fallen out- eew! it's so burnt out it looks lighter in the front!-" "I did NOT put any chemicals or dyes in my child's hair! Her father has red hair!" my mother barked, "as IF it is any of your business!" As I got older many assumed but never verbalized that I dyed my hair. Only beauticians were amazed. "Is that a birth mark?" "No, my mother has jet black hair and my father has strawberry blond hair...this (I would say pointing to the streak in the front of my head and the highlights throughout) is what I got out of it..." "It's really pretty!" I would humbly thank them for the compliment and secretly pray the woman in the next chair would stop staring needles at me. By the time I began attending college in Florida, the sun was bleaching my hair strawberry blonde in the front and fiery auburn in the back. It was getting out of hand; that's when I began putting in brown rinses.
SAYING BAD THINGS ABOUT 'GOOD HAIR'
But curly hair is noticeable in a place where most women are fighting to kept their hair from 'going back home' due to the humidity. "Is that a curl?" "No my hair...just...curls." "You mixed?" "Something like that.." With all the women walking around with curly hair, my hair texture shouldn't have been an issue. But it was made an issue (along with my complexion) due to what was coming out of my mouth. All that yelling about Afrocentricity, Ujamaa (cooperative economics) and racial unity got me noticed for the wrong reason. In a region where lighter skin was treated like 'gold', and people felt being mistaken for Latina instead of African-American was a compliment, one seemed to be protesting too much. At a historically Black college I was told "But you don't even look Black..." by another member of the Student Council when I asked why we didn't have a Black History celebration planned for the third meeting in a row. My mother's 'curse' was visiting upon me. Because she never dealt with what was going on inside her head about what was on top on her head, I hadn't learned how to counter that sort of negativity. That is, until I met a White British guy with dreadlocks.
My mother was so excited when I brought him home; she viewed locks as a truly natural hairstyle and realized if he was able to 'tangle' his hair, she could too. In all her years of pining for locks, she was too ashamed to go to a professional; her first inquiry into the how-to of locks ended poorly. "How did you get your hair to twist and lock?" she'd asked innocently. "Why?" "I would like to lock up my hair-" "HA! It will unravel before you get any length!" the woman had lied to her. She also lied and said my mother would have to damage her hair in order for the locks to tangle. My poor mother went away feeling she didn't belong once again. In him coming over and helping my mother with her new hairdo, she asked him if he would cut her hair so she could have shorter flirtier locks. Once the process was done, she seemed so happy...until they started growing. "Should I cut them?" she'd asked me, "Isn't the point of locks 'no maintenance'?" I inquired back. "But I haven't had long hair in years...". That is when I found out about the afro wigs and why she encouraged us not to wear our hair long. I felt her oppression as a girl: when other people teased me, they always reached for my long curly ponytails to yank.
What was so wrong with our hair?
"Nothing is wrong with you all's hair because you DON'T run from the rain!", a friend revealed to me (a cultural reference to the stereotype that African-American women supposedly do not want to get their hair wet because it will become kinky and coarse). "You all have the grade of hair that most people want. Remember 'School Daze'? The problem is not you all, it's them and what THAT kind of hair represents." My hair had been worn as a badge of shame of the 'dilution' in us. I would often tell others that being 'mixed' didn't affect your afrocentricity, but after all the drama with hair, did I believe it? And what did it say about my love and loyalty to the idea of equality within my diverse cultural background toward those family members that were not of African descent?
EVOLUTION OF MY REVOLUTION
My complexion is linked with my hair color (red hair and freckles) and my hair length- it seems- was forever to be determined by an illogical 'balancing' within my race. Those who didn't seem to grow long lengths were allowed to oppress those of us who did while secretly yearning for what we had. I began an experiment. I began to let my hair grow longer and only got the ends clipped for split ends. My mother too allowed her locks to grow. When I would go out with my mother and her locks were free, even those who knew she was my mother made much-to-do about my hair length but not hers. "Is that weave?" some would ask, whether I was wearing my hair curly or flat ironed. "If you don't cut your hair the ends will catch in your clothes because of the perm and break off.." "But I don't have a perm." I would retort, bringing a frown to their faces. "Long hair isn't in!" one young woman told me as she held a magazine with three Black actresses on it wearing lengthy extensions. "Dare to be different!" I answered.
Except for windy days, my hair is neat when flat ironed straight. I keep my hair cut in layers to give it structure and volume but it still seems to 'offend'. My mother's locks are now down to her derriere; my younger sister cropped her hair short and simply moistures it, showing off her texture by wearing it soft and curly; my older sister is still timid about long hair and "professionalism", but I'm working on her. And me? As long as I can put a bun on the top of my head, there is no such thing as 'too long'. Neither my hair color, length nor style will ever define me or my beliefs again. I hope by growing my hair...down to there...I can get some of the sisters to respect that some Black women enjoy having long hair, not because of who they are trying to look like or be, but for natural reasons. My flat iron is no different than the henna my mother dips her locks in- a tool of versatility. My hair is like earrings: some wear the same ones everyday and like Beyonce's chandelier earrings, my hair is just a little longer.
I was re-reading a letter I sent in to Essence Magazine years ago in answer to another reader's letter RE: Why the stylist had put weave in Jada Pinkett-Smith's hair. "I like her hair short and natural" the reader wrote. The editor explained that Jada's hair was all her own and they simply blow dried it "to give it a softer wave." My multi-culti background is no longer a subject of secrecy, I am happy to say.
Labels: 'good hair', afros, Black stories, light-skinned, long hair
posted by ScreenGoddessComplex at 1:47 AM
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