To be honest, I cannot describe what I felt as angry.
It feels impossible to reserve one word to the feelings that I had toward your question. The feelings that arose within me felt more like tidal waves of mortification and discomfort. You are a man who will likely go throughout his life being called a racist because you have not educated yourself enough about the struggles of other people. I am not angry.
However, any other black girl that you decide to ask with a slurred and privileged voice the question regarding whether or not you can place your hand, a hand that might be perfectly clean or layered with grime, onto their hair? They could be very angry, and rightly so. You see, we have the opportunity to create another world here. Another dimension. In this new dimension let’s say that you are in my position. Your laughs are ringing into the cold air downtown in your city, and you stand huddled together with a few close friends, looking forward to whatever the night has to offer. You suddenly feel three hard, abrupt, taps on your shoulder, and you spin around mid laughter, and are face to face with me. You see in this world our roles are reversed. I am standing behind you stoic, with a curious perplexed look on my face. My mouth opens and closes as I struggle to formulate my sentence. I am unsure whether or not I am going to come off as rude, but in a split second I decide that my wishes and curiosity are more important than your comfort. Your gaze toward me is friendly and inviting, but a little confused, curiously waiting for me to spit out whatever it is that I have to say. I reach my hand out toward you.
You don’t know if it is clean or dirty or what I am about to do with it, and I ask you a question that throws you off guard. “Can I touch your hair?” I stammer, smiling to make my question seem far less creepy than it is. You instantly freeze. Your mouth forms a surprised “o” and you awkwardly look to your right. You feel as if the world’s eyes are on you. My hand still wavers in the air and your beautiful, luscious hair sitting on top of your head now has an audience. You are no longer a person standing in the cold night air laughing with their friends. You are an exhibit. You are surrounded by tall and dusty museum walls climbing up to an inescapable ceiling. You are something to be stared at, admired, pawned over, touched, you do not have the right to never be asked this question. You stand still, solemnly boxed into your new tank, and you ponder your decisions.
You are now given two uncomfortable options.
Option number one: You can politely smile and say sure, hoping that I get it over with quickly, and without drawing too much attention. You can then hold your breath as you feel my unfamiliar fingers rake and probe over your soft coils. You can stand still and wait for it to be over as you uncomfortably watch strangers look onto you with perplexity, and some with judgemental gazes. You can wonder whether or not they are going to ask if they can touch your hair next.
You can then imagine a line of unfamiliar faces waiting to get the chance to run their own fingers, dirty or clean, through your silky curls, and maybe one such line does form. You can stand there exposed, and take all of the unsolicited comments. “Wow, you have so much hair!” You will let them say as they gaze in amazement at your head, and probe their tentacles through your tangles. You are now their new dog. “Isn’t this hard to take care of?” One of your new onlookers will say as they comb their hands through your identity. “I mean there’s just so much of it… have you ever thought of cutting it or straightening it?”
You stand in vulnerability, subject to their judgments and uninvited opinions. You can only smile and nod politely, and release a suffocated chuckle. You dare not protest. If you squander you risk being labeled as the feared “angry black woman” a scoundrel slashing down “weak” and “innocent admirers” in her wake. Option one will continue and maybe someone who recognizes you as human will help you. Maybe someone will notice your discomfort and step in. Maybe someone will say “Hey, I think that they’ve had enough, we should stop.” People will pause in their trampling of your tresses at this new voice, that is until someone else speaks up. A new monster, one more calculating, one that knows your heart and refuses to squash its oncoming attack. One who will play off of your unwillingness to be labeled. They will step forward with a reasonable tone and proud shoulders, a new hero for the curious. “Well they don’t have a problem with it… I mean they haven’t told us to stop.”
Everyone’s eyes will be on you, eyes that will either force you to cower, or force you to be seen as something that you are not. From there I do not know what will happen because I do not know you. I repeat, I do not know you. You might feel appalled to option one, as I was when you asked me this question. You might be shocked that some stranger feels that they have the right to ask you if they can touch your hair, similar to the manner in which someone asks to pet someone else’s dog.
Therefore, you decide to take option two and tell me no. You smile awkwardly and scrunch your brows together not really knowing how to tell someone no to something that they should be old enough to know not to ask. You mutter out an “uh…” and I, ignoring your discomfort continue to speak. “I mean it’s just so fluffy and big,” I say smiling encouragingly, as if my description of your hair as fluffy and big should be received kindly as a compliment, and elicit your approval of me touching your hair.
You stare at me in disbelief and then I finally realize the look of obvious indignation in your eyes. “I mean I’ll take that as a no,” I say now, a bit flustered and annoyed. I am now a bit embarrassed and surprised that somebody told me no to something that I view as such a simple request. You smile sadly at me and said, “Yes. No, thank you, I’m sorry.” You apologize to me. However you secretly kick yourself for feeling like you have to apologize because you know that I shouldn’t have asked you that question in the first place. You turn around and I observe the annoyed and shocked faces of your friends, but I am not finished talking. “Wow, they really took that the wrong way,” I say loudly behind you, to let you know that I am not pleased with your decision to not let me invade your hair. I watch as you shuffle away from me, as if I am a criminal or a creep. This angers me and further blinds me to the wrongness of the situation. You walk away feeling a little bit violated, and not really feeling in the mood to hang out with your friends anymore. Instead you would rather curl up in your dorm room and watch tv trying to shake the feeling that you are a “do not touch” sign.
I hope that this new dimension brought some enlightenment. I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know why you thought that it was okay to ask me if you could touch my hair. I don’t know if you still think that your question wasn’t that big of a deal, and I don’t know if you’re actually going to take the time to educate yourself on the reasons as to why asking a black women if you can touch her hair, natural or not is not okay. I’m sure you aren’t a bad person, I am not saying that you are. However, I hope that after this experience you have become less racially insensitive.
We are not museum objects, we are not clothes in a shopping window with ruffles on the sleeves for you to touch with your possibly grotesque fingers. We are people who have a history of being regarded as zoo animals. Our ancestors were touched and prodded and poked without a voice to say no. Today, black people have voices. I have a voice, and someone else does too. The next time that you walk into a room or are out downtown you are likely to see someone else’s hair that you would like to touch and poke and prod. It could be light brown with feathered out strands creating a beautiful halo of coils. It might be shoulder length and dark, with spiraling, liquid-like tendrils flowing like a river. It could be colored blonde or blue or have thin lines of red entangled through its coal beautiful tresses. It might be the most beautiful, or interesting masterpiece that you have ever seen on top another human’s head.
Don’t you dare ask to touch it.