The Race Card, Part Two: Good Hair

I've been waiting to write this post until after I watched Chris Rock's documentary, "Good Hair," especially since I stole his title. I'm glad I waited, not only because it definitely validated a lot of what I was already going to comment on, but I actually learned a lot about things that were pretty foreign to me!

So, the title of the movie comes from when Chris Rock's five-year old daughter came to him and sadly asked, "Daddy, why don't I have good hair?" He was pretty stunned to have his beautiful little girl ask him a question that seemed rooted in a culture of self-hate. So he decided to research and investigate why black women go to extremes to make their hair more "white-like" instead of allowing the natural tight curls to reign. It was a very insightful movie. He traced some of the historical issues surrounding straight hair versus "nappy" or "kinky" hair (I personally hate both of those terms; I think there is an inherent derogatory tone attached to them both). I think the two things that surprised me most about the movie was a) how so many black women--from celebrity actresses and models to low-income working class women--spend thousands of dollars on weaves, and b) how truly harsh chemical straightening relaxers are on your hair and scalp. With respect to the second point, Rock met with a chemist who demonstrated that the active ingredient in chemical relaxers can dissolve an aluminum can in a matter of hours. That was scary, especially because so many women in the movie admitted to allowing the relaxer to stay in their hair past the point of burning their scalp beyond belief, with the hope that their hair would be that much straighter. Regarding the weaves, I see shops all around for weaves and braids and haven't thought much about it. Little did I know that women can stay in the chair for 5-7 HOURS getting a weave put in, at a cost of $1000-$4000, or even more if you're wealthy.

I don't want to ruin all of the gems in this movie, so I'll leave it there for now. However, if you're in the mood for a good laugh, and a lesson in black culture, too, rent this movie. I'm black and it was eye-opening for me.

The sad truth is, I totally understand where Rock's daughter is coming from. From an early age, I thought that God must not love black girls as much as all the other girls in the world, because we were the only ones who got stuck with this "difficult" type of hair. As young black girls, my sister and I had to suffer through the hot comb, a thick metal comb that my mother would heat on the stove top burner to straighten our hair. God forbid you moved a muscle or the hot comb would sizzle and char a little bit of your skin. And once it was all said and done, you didn't want to get caught in the rain, or go swimming, or get sweaty, because your hair would "go back," meaning revert to its natural curly state. I SO envied all my white girlfriends who could jump in the pool without a second thought, their long tresses dangling wet and beautiful down their backs. My mother made my sister and me wear a bathing cap, which really only kept my hair out of my face but did little to keep my hair from getting wet. So, as soon as the cap came off, my big bush of curly hair puffed out into a big Afro, much to my embarrassment, my friends' confusion, and my mother's chagrin. It just seemed like nothing could go right when it came to my hair.

Then there were the questions. In hindsight, I've realized that the questions really were more out of genuine curiosity and confusion than from malice or antagonism, but as a kid, I hated being the different one that had to volley all of them. Questions like, "Why does your hair stand up like that?" and "You really don't need to use hairspray???" or "Do black people wash their hair?". Oh, and the floodgates opened if I got a straightening relaxer or got a different hairstyle: "Your hair looks so different! I didn't know your hair could do that!" or "You mean your hair never moves??" It was exhausting and frustrating, particularly during my adolescence when all I wanted was to fit in, to constantly feel like I was the odd man out because of my hair. I used to fantasize that one day a magical solution would come into the market that would allow my hair to grow out of my head bone-straight like everyone else. I just hated the fact that my hair in its natural state was not considered attractive or valuable by mainstream America. After all, when was the last time anyone saw a black woman on tv or in the movies sporting natural locks (okay, other than Whoopie Goldberg)?

Sometime around the age of nine or ten, my mother came upon "gentle relaxers" made especially for children. After trying to avoid burning our ears with the hot comb for so many years, we were all anxious for another alternative to straight hair. Even so-called "kiddie relaxers" are harsh on hair and scalp, however, and we would sit through the application process, waiting out the burning scalp so that the relaxer could work its magic. And, voila!, straight hair was the result. But even relaxers weren't a cure-all. Because they are so damaging to hair and scalp, my mother had to spend long periods of time applying special hair oil. This involved sectioning our hair and rubbing oil into the scalp and hair to make things soft and "healthy" again. Once again, we had to wear shower caps when showering, and bathing caps in the pool, because God forbid you washed out the hair oil that had taken an hour to apply! It seemed like this blasted hair was keeping me from being normal like everyone else.

By junior high school, I had taken some autonomy over my hair. While my mother still applied the relaxer, I was fully responsible for washing it every week, setting it in rollers every night before bed, and styling it every morning. I had even gotten to a point where I appreciated my hair because it had gotten longer and I could do more with it. I still had to deal with questions from folks from time to time--like if there was a slumber party and I had black-girl-variety-bed-head the next morning--but overall I was feeling more comfortable in my own head of hair. I went to university and life with my hair was relatively normal, despite having to explain my hair to my dorm roommates and various friends. My mother still gave me relaxers when I went home for the holidays. Then, in 1998, something changed. I was a junior at New York University, and I had gotten accepted to a study abroad program in England for a semester. I didn't think much about my hair until after I'd already gotten there. I began to realize that my natural roots were slowly starting to grow in, a far cry from the straight relaxed hair I had enjoyed for so long. I didn't know what to do. I'd heard horror stories from women who had gone to salons for relaxers and permanents and been forgotten about by the stylist, only to have their hair fried off their heads. I knew there was no one out there who would take care of my hair like my mother would, and so I made the decision to wait out the relaxer until I returned to the States four months later. This was kind of risky, in more ways than one. First, I didn't know what to do with natural hair, since I really hadn't dealt with my own natural hair as a young woman; I'd always dealt with my hair chemically relaxed, so I was at a loss as to what to do. Second, because chemical relaxers are so harsh, the point where the relaxed hair ends and the new growth begins is very fragile. I had heard on a number of occasions that it's possible to break all your hair off at that point if one is not careful. So, I was very gentle in combing and brushing my hair for the next few weeks. As more and more of my new growth came in (and quickly, I noticed!), the more I realized...how much I liked it.

This was a bit of an epiphany for me, because my entire life had been spent resenting my difficult, hard-to-manage hair. In fact, one of my cousins had taught my siblings and me a little sing-song saying about girls with unruly black natural hair: "Cantcha comb it? Dontcha try?" I had always been afraid of looking like someone who couldn't manage my hair, of essentially, looking too black. Goodness knows I never would have sported an afro; no girl I knew in junior high or high school would have. But as I stood in my little bathroom in Birmingham, England, it was like I was seeing myself for the first time. And I liked what I saw. The little curly ringlets that framed my hairline, the waves of shiny, healthy brown hair that emanated from my scalp...it all seemed to come together in my mind. Why had I been avoiding my natural hair for so long? Who was I trying to please or impress? Why couldn't I just be myself in my true essence? And so I let it grow, and grow it did. Now that I wasn't applying harsh chemicals, curling irons or hot combs to my hair, I had healthy locks of hair growing from my head. I still didn't have much notion of what to do with it--I wasn't overly interested in dreadlocks or braids--so I just combed it out in the shower every morning and put it back in a ponytail. And I was happy.

And in the twelve years since, I have never gone back to chemically treating my hair. That's not to say that I haven't gotten pressure from various sides to do so. My mother, a southern girl who lived through segregation, integration, bussing and the Civil Rights Movement, questioned my desire to keep my hair natural. Even to this day, she can't quite figure out why I do. Once, she asked me if I keep my hair natural as a way to feel connected to my "blackness" since I am married to a white man. I actually thought there might have been some validity to this argument if it weren't for the fact that I'd gone natural before I met Adam. But perhaps feeling connected to my roots (pardon the pun) is an impotus for keeping my natural hair. But mostly it's because it's healthiest this way, and easier to work with. Belive it or not, I barely have to work with my hair at all on a day-to-day basis. No more hour-long oil treatments, no more burning relaxers, no more hot combs. I admit that I will straighten my hair with a flat iron a few times a year when I want to look a little different or get glammed up. Adam likes a little variety from time to time, so sometimes I'll straighten it for him. Despite the fact that I try to keep my hair straight as long as possible on such occasions (simply because it takes a good hour to get it that way), I find that I'm always much happier to have it back in its natural state. I think I look better with curly hair. And my stylists always tell me that it's obvious that I keep my hair natural, because it is always so healthy, free of split ends and breaks.

Plus...no more worries about swimming pools, shower, getting caught in the rain, sweating. My hair is already curly...none of these things will make it get any curlier. I feel SO free to do anything in life now, for there is no more fear of what my hair will look like. This is particularly good since I am a wildlife biologist, and work in varying weather conditions, and usually need to wash my hair everyday after coming in from the field.

The saga of "good hair" has continued to some degree now that I have Bryony in my life. People seem to be overly concerned about what her hair is doing as she gets older. As a newborn, she had bone-straight black hair, but slowly it started to curl. Several people have commented sadly, "Oh, it got curly...!" as if curly hair (as if MY contribution to her hair) is somehow disappointing. Personally I think her curly hair is outrageously beautiful. There have even been a few people (virtual strangers, mind you) who have reconciled her curly hair by saying that at least it's like the texture of Adam's hair and not mine. (Yes, people have really said that to my face.) Granted, I'm her mother, but I think my baby girl is beautiful no matter what the curl level of her locks. And in that vein, what happens if her hair does change and ends up more like mine? Does that mean the world will find her less attractive because of it? Well, her mother won't...

And so that's my hair story. It took twenty years for me to finally come to terms with my natural hair, and to not only be okay with it, but to love it. Are there bad hair days when I wish my hair were different, easier, straight? Sure. But I know women with straight hair who wish for curly hair. And women with glorious curls who straighten the hell out of them every day. We all want what we can't have; it's human nature, I think. I once read a book that discussed the issue of black women's woes with their hair, and the idea of "bad hair" versus "good hair." The book concluded by saying, "In our opinion, if you've got hair, GOOD!".

Good, hair.