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It is so important that we as Black women have a positive relationship with our hair. A relationship that isn’t controlled by misogyny or “professionalism.” A relationship that understands there is no respectable way to wear your own hair; one that makes you feel beautiful.
One day after pre-school, when I could not have been more than 4 years old, I came home and I told my mom that I wish I could have “yellow hair”. I was not yet conscious of the fact that “yellow hair” is called blonde, but I was aware that looser and lighter hair types had higher value in my small little world; I was feeling the impact of racism and hair insecurity at daycare.
Growing up, my mother would style my hair every week—if not every day. I would sit on the floor between her legs while she sat on the couch behind me. She would watch Real Housewives of Atlanta during this time, and I’d sneak peaks, always eavesdropping on the drama. As we watched the fabulous Atlanta housewives argue, my mom would take my hair down, grease it, comb it, braid or twist it, bead it, and add hair bows dependent on the colors of the day’s outfit.
Many Black girls experience this ritual with their moms, grandmothers, and/or older sisters. Their fingers are laced with love which dances all across your scalp. How much time have they spent on your head throughout your life? How hard did they try to make you feel beautiful and instill confidence that they hoped would be unwavering? At what point did our hair become sensational, or even political?
My mother always emphasized how important my natural hair was. I believed her, but I would go to school with girls with “yellow hair” or just hair that blew in the wind and I would feel othered. My hair did not fall like that or sway like that.
Apparently, the parted sections from my braids stuck out so much that a white boy once asked me why I was bald in a grid pattern. When did our hair stop belonging to us and start belonging to the outside world? It just had to make sense to everybody and my scalp became a petting zoo, non-consensually. Blackness equated to otherness which somehow resulted in “less-than.” We’ve all experienced this, and every Black girl or woman reaches a point in their life when we decide for the first time whether we will conform to expectations or choose to defy them.
This is a choice we make everyday, whether conscious or not. I’m going to talk about some of my choices over the years: In middle school, I decided to stop wearing my natural hair in braids by my mom, and I started wearing silk presses regularly, I think out of insecurity and wanting to appear more grown up. These are natural feelings for a tween girl, but I can’t separate that from misogynoir and me feeling othered. What I failed to realize at the time, was that no adjustment to my hair was ever going to put me on the same plane to my peers. In 8th grade and into early high school, I started wearing my hair in its natural state under advisement from my mom. She would be the one to wash it and tell me which products to use and how. I’m not quite sure what the switch was—maybe a fake-it-til-you-make-it situation, but I wanted to feel confident in my natural hair, so I forced us to spend time together. It was like therapy.
Junior year of high school I tried protective faux locs and braids for the first time. I had been building this strong relationship with my natural hair, and now I was curious about exploring my hair in different ways. This allowed me different creative freedoms as I started wearing clips and hair bows in my hair again. Wearing my hair styled like a kid allowed me to reconnect with my inner child, but this time she was able to feel fully confident in herself. No want for “yellow hair.”
I had gotten pretty used to my protective styles, but earlier this year I tried out Tabitha Brown’s Donna’s Recipe haircare line and it did absolute wonders for my afro. I went months washing my hair with the shampoo and conditioner every week and that’s all I did. For the first time in my life, I had what I felt like the perfect wash and go routine.
I have reached a point in my life where I‘m not just at peace with my hair: I’m in love with it in every style or texture imaginable. I look forward to Wash Day now! What took me 15-20 years never happens for a lot of Black women, but I want it to happen for you.
Our hair holds our stress, but it also holds our confidence and you can work with it. Don’t give up on your hair no matter how frustrating it can be.
Try different styles and different products until you feel beautiful. Wear a wig, extensions, protective style, safe relaxer, or silk press and don’t let anyone tell you that you shouldn’t. Definitely don’t turn your nose up at other women who are brave enough to play with their hairstyles. This hair journey has separate paths and time frames for each and every one of us. I just beg that you don’t give up on your natural hair and that you give some love to it sometimes. You deserve to find the beauty in every part of who you are, and that includes your hair.