Don’t touch my ​hair​, culture

Don’t touch my ​hair​, culture

For centuries, our hair has been our bond in the black community. Our hair has not only created jobs and established economic growth, but it connects us, starts conversations, and even builds confidence. Feelings, thoughts, and emotions are expressed through our hairstyles, and some literally distinguish tribes in Africa. Clearly, our hair is a big deal that evokes emotion, comfortability, and tells a story. Let me tell you mine.

Wash day.I was young, and it was wash day. My mom had two sets of twin girls, so wash day meant business in our home. We would grab our towels and necessary tools on our way to the luxurious kitchen sink. I would lay gracefully across the counter, my neck was supported by the hand of my mother, as she cleansed my scalp of all the impurities, bad vibes, mean comments, and maybe some dandruff that attached to my 3c/4a coils. Wash day was therapeutic, and I got excited when my mother lathered up the soap and scratched my scalp with her fingernails. I would ask her to keep scratching because it felt like nothing else mattered in that moment.

Style time. Because I was younger there were styles I couldn’t get, unless it was a special occasion, so I would usually sit for hours while my mother created art that always caught the attention of others. I would sit between her legs with my head pressed against her thighs, and sometimes we would talk, and sometimes I would listen. She taught herself to braid our hair—having four girls will do that to you. My mom was so organized, you would think she was running a business. My sisters and I had the pleasure of selecting our own beads that would add a certain razzle-dazzle to our style. So many different color combinations and patterns to choose from, the possibilities were endless.

Dream on. Because I was younger, my mom would not let me have my hair pressed out. However, I wanted to look in the mirror and see how long it was and how neat it would look on me. I wanted to feel my hair hang down my back. I imagined it would make me look more mature, swing with every turn of my head, and definitely draw some attention. Who didn’t want a little extra attention on their hair growing up? Listen, I need you to understand that my hair has a persona, let’s call her Bell. Oh and of course if Bell was pressed out, it would have me “smelling myself.” The anticipation was enough to drive a girl crazy, and Bell was just so inpatient.

The wait is over. I was finally able to straighten my hair, but the process was different. Step one was still lying my head back at the luxurious sink. Only this time, we never left the kitchen. I would sit my restless butt on a wooden stool for Bell to have that hang-time I dreamed of. This is when I learned the importance of the kitchen, and I’m not talking about the one you cook in. As we sat next to the stove that warmed the hot comb, Mom would tell me to hold my ears as she tried not to burn my neck—and if ever she did, it was because I couldn’t stay still, no matter how still I actually was.

Trial and error. I was finally old enough to do my own hair. I had no idea what I was doing, but I had complete control. Why did I have control? I guess because you have to grow up someday. I began to cut, color, and try all types of extensions. My hair was the way I expressed myself, and I had a lot of fun doing it. Coincidentally, I had no idea what I was doing, so I made a lot of mistakes along the way. Bell has been through it, but she has been so forgiving. After three diva cuts and embracing my curl journey, Bell is flourishing—and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Black Hair Matters. As you can see, black hair has a story of its own. From my childhood to present day, each memory told and untold shaped my life and my world. My hair taught me value, perseverance, commitment, and growth. Bell has been talked about, lied on, and even envied by people who can’t appreciate her journey, likely because they didn’t experience it themselves. They don’t see the value she brings, nor do they respect her because she moves differently. Nonetheless, in all her forms, she is still my pride and joy. She is the real deal. Though copied, she is the culture that will keep growing. No, you can’t touch my hair.