Hair: Not the Musical

So, what’s with the hair?

The simple query posed with a bit of a smirk from a former co-worker who knew me way back when, whom I haven’t seen in several years, called for a simple response. But this is hair and hair is not simple. Hair is a pile of kinky twists steeped in tradition, political, and cultural mores. Hair is about weekly trips to The Beauty Shop or hours spent pressing or curling unless you are blessed with good hair. Hair is about the constant argument as to what is pretty and more importantly, acceptable. Hair is about identity. Hair is big. And way back when, I had big hair with the big, complicated, twisty acceptance issues to match.

Though I had a full bounty of soft, relatively straight and manageable hair, the so called, good hair and was constantly reminded of the blessedness of such a state, I didn’t feel blessed. I felt burdened. From very early on my hair generated much attention. There was the weekly washing and drying combined with the daily combing, brushing, oiling, parting, banding, and festooning with ribbons and barrettes. As the only daughter I was the sole sufferer of the arduous regime. From very early on my mom adored prettying up her little girl with all the ribbons and such. As I matured, the reliance on ribbons and barrettes to achieve a prettified look waned some, but the ardor over what constituted pretty or acceptable continued unabated. Our first mother-daughter battles over my hair began in my pre-teen years. I was of the opinion that she should and could cease her ministrations, while she begged to differ. Eventually, she did relinquish the day-to-day labor but that just paved the way for battles yet to come.

So, what’s with the hair?

Though I was given the go-ahead to dispense with the rubber-bands, ribbons, barrettes and ponytails, I was schooled in wash and set. Since I did have a grade of hair that did not require hot combs or chemical relaxers to achieve a coiffed style, my hair torture involved curlers and sometimes sitting under a dryer for hours. Saturday was hair day. There was washing, rolling, drying, removing rollers, oiling, and styling. To maintain the curl my hair had to be rolled nightly. We didn’t have the money for mom and daughter trips to the beauty shop on a weekly basis. My trips were reserved for special occasions only. Thankfully, those were few and far between, for I dreaded trips to the beauty shop. Under my own ministrations, the wash and set days were numbered. I pulled way back and experimented with a number of other styling options.

I couldn’t retire the wash and set fully, because my mom still wielded much influence and to her way of thinking, this was the only acceptable option. Still, it was the seventies and folks were saying it loud about being black and proud. Back to Africa and cultural awareness movements and empowerments gave way for the popularization of natural hair styles and natural hair care. Folks all over were seen in afros. My hair was much too soft to pull off a righteous afro, but that didn’t stop me from trying. Mom thought it was sloppy, which was probably true. She wouldn’t let me cut my hair, which would have helped I think. Of course, more to the point, she wasn’t a big fan of afros on anyone. I grew weary of working to maintain my afro as well as the constant battles with mom. I sought other styling options that would keep me out of those blasted curlers.

Enter braids, plaits, or cornrows. Mom never learned how to braid and as you might imagine, she was not a fan of braiding as an acceptable hairstyle. In her view, and she wasn’t in the minority, braids were like curlers in that you were never to be caught outside with your hair in them. I learned to braid. I learned to braid very, very well. And even after they were popularized globally by the likes of Bo Derek, braids were still cause for battles between mother and daughter. Never-the-less, I clung to the braids. I loved the look, the feel, and the relatively low maintenance aspect of braids. The elaborate styles needed tending only once a week. Eventually, the styles became less elaborate, requiring daily tending, but 5 minutes, tops, was all the time needed.

My battles over my hair continued right through to my marriage. My husband, more my mother’s generation than mine, was even less enamored of my braiding tendencies. He nagged me constantly about going to get my hair done. He voiced his disapproval each time I reverted to my around the crown French braid. He was adamant about my wearing a hairstyle befitting my age, my business environment, and my feminine status. Of course his opinions weren’t limited to my hair, but it all started up top.

To keep the peace I went along to keep along, mostly. However, now and again I’d assert my independence. A few years into our togetherness I cut my hair. A deep cut. The wrath that rained down on me over this scurrilous act was nothing compared to that I experienced over the afro or the braiding. Everyone was up in arms over the cutting of all that blessed hair. The husband’s voice bellowed over all the others, “WHY’D YOU CUT YOUR HAIR?” A simple query posed with venom and heat called for a simple response. But this was hair, a complicated pile of weaves and extensions, of hot curling and flat-irons, of blow drying madness. He wasn’t really interested in why anyway.

While I didn’t cut it often during our many years together, that choice wasn’t so much about compliance as it was about not possessing the skill set to cut it in the ways I found most attractive or the gumption to walk into a barber shop for service. Still, when I did clip it or revert to the braids, I got the looks and the barrage of berating comments. Still in the throes of denial and inching my way toward self-discovery and assurance, it hadn’t occurred to me much way back then that I was making some kind of statement. Looking back, I could see I was asserting some authority and carving out some independence. I was taking a stand for my own ideas about what was pretty and moreover, acceptable.

Our divorce wasn’t over my hair any more than it was over any other single issue. We parted ways over a myriad of complicated life issues. His departure created a certain kind of silence. In the space of that silence, reflection ensued. In the space of those reflections I wrestled with understanding the ramifications of what was becoming increasingly clear. During that space of time and relative silence I was granted the grace to uncover some truths that shattered so many epochs of my past and put so many others in proper perspective.

So, what’s with the hair?

For a few years after my divorce I tried on a few looks. Nearly three years ago I settled on the very close crop. I walked into a barber shop and after a few attempts over several trips he finally got it to where I needed it to be. I am as comfortable with this hair style as I am with any of the choices made during this journey. So, what’s with the hair? A complicated issue to be sure, steeped in tradition, mired in political and social mores; kinky or relaxed, braids or coiffed, long or short, masculine or feminine, pretty or not, in or out, it is an identity.

The long and short of it, this is who I am, period. Love or hate, praise or berate, stay or go, this is who I am.

Tags: African-American Culture, Coming Out, Hair, Lesbian