I have sad childhood memories associated with having my hair styled in an attempt to “tame” it. As I combed my granddaughter’s beautiful thick kinky curly natural hair this morning in preparation for school, those memories flooded back into my consciousness causing me to express gratitude that my baby can wear her hair natural and feel beautiful as well as accepted by her community.
Today, I wear my hair in its natural state, but for many years much of my energy and money was devoted to controlling my mane. I have worn it pressed, straight permed, hot curled, and flat ironed. In the name of social and cultural acceptance, I’ve endured much (including bodily harm) to make my hair submit into being something it was never designed to be, bone-straight.
One of my earliest hair memories began as my mother pulled into the tiny lot of Mrs. Cole’s beauty shop on South Park in Tucson, Arizona. Excitement spread throughout my entire body as I anticipated a new hairdo, specifically, a press and curl. Climbing into a booster chair propped precariously on the styling chair, I was fascinated by the sensory experience of having my crowning glory styled. The chair was situated in the miniscule dimly lit beauty shop. I recall the smell of the iron stove heating on the counter. As the “hot” comb heated in the stove chamber, Mrs. Cole aggressively separated and prepared sections of my hair with thick blue grease. I recall how the grease would melt onto my scalp as the extremely (no dangerously) hot implement raked through my thick tresses taming them straight as smoke from my burning hair and grease ascended in slow winding patterns up to the ceiling, filling the room with a blue cloudy haze.
For those of you who have never had a piece of hot metal millimeters from your scalp let me assure you, it is as scary and painful as you could possibly imagine. Let’s just say I learned that first day, wiggling in the chair would bring the wrath of the hot comb down on my tender scalp, or ear, or forehead. On many occasions I left that shop (AKA “torture chamber”) in so much pain from the first- and second-degree burns inflicted by the hot comb, but my hair was cute! For years I had scars on the tops of my ears from all the burns I endured. I still remember the pressing comb touching my skin, searing it, causing the same sizzling sound as a piece of steak being tossed on a hot charcoal grill.
My obsession with straight hair continued from childhood well into adulthood. I still have a scar on my neck from a curling iron that slipped from my hand as I primped for a swim party (where I absolutely did not swim to protect my freshly styled hair). After the party, the pain from the burn had become so intense it led to an emergency room visit where it was determined that I’d suffered a third-degree burn from the 140-degree hot iron sitting on my skin for more than three seconds. But again, my hair was styled quite nicely. I was twenty-three-years-old when that happened and I still have the scar!
I was explaining to a friend last week, how a perm felt when it stayed on my hair too long. Put yourself in my shoes. Think what would happen if you put Liquid Drano on your skin and just let it sit there for a few minutes. Yep, not comfortable. I regularly subjected myself to lye or similar chemicals being placed on my hair to remove any curl from my gorgeous natural locks. Once, a stylist left the chemical relaxer on my hair too long, causing burns on my scalp that took days to heal. To make matters worse, when I washed my hair a few days later, I pulled fists full of hair out, enough to fill a quart-sized Ziplock bag. After crying hysterically, I called my friend Tammy (she is a cosmetologist) and begged for her help. She glued a hair weave into a large section of my hair for several months until my hair grew out enough for me to chop it uniformly. In essence I had to start over. If you have seen “Nappily Ever After” on Netflix starring Sanaa Lathan, you know exactly what I have experienced. If you have not seen the film, make it a point to do so.
Culturally, people in the United States are still trying to figure out how to relate to the natural styles that women wear today. From Bantu knots to braids. Kinky curly afros to afro-puffs. As women of color experiment with our hair we are met with those willing to embrace the beautiful self-expression of natural hair. While others deem it unsanitary and unkept. Personally speaking I spend more time on the upkeep of my natural hair than I did with chemically- or heat-altered hair. I love my natural hair but even wonder if it hinders my career to look so “ethnic”. My inability to be fully vulnerable about my hair is preventing me from undergoing the full chop, that I have dreamed of for years. Maybe when I am sixty-years-old I will pull out the scissors and just do it.
My experiences with hair during my formative and adult years caused me tremendous pain and angst, which I pray K-Bear never has to endure. When I finished combing her hair this morning, she looked at me and said, “YaYa I love it when you comb my hair.” I do not ever remember loving to have my hair styled at her age. I am so glad she is free from the pressure to torture herself to fit in and to be seen. Her hair is truly her crowning glory, as is mine.