Once upon a time I was a little girl in Jamaica. My most prized possession was a hair styling head – basically a severed doll’s head with the neck sloping into a rubber base that stayed in place as I curled, braided and pinned the medium length tresses into concoctions of my imagination. The toy was a gift from my mother’s hair dresser friend and my unofficial godmother. She was my first role model. Yvonne was her own boss, an independent, enterprising single woman. She had a tiny frame and a big laugh; her smile was tropical sunshine, warmth spread over my skin when she beamed at me. She made me feel like my efforts were worthy of her praise. My hairstyling skills were basically imitations of whatever I saw her doing. She tamed and finessed the kinks and curls of Kingston ladies with hot combs and irons while I fussed with silken strands spun from the finest polyester. Little girl me didn’t notice the disparity between the hair textures. All dolls had silky hair, I’d never seen one with hair like mine. When representation doesn’t exist, it’s hard to recognize it’s missing.
Then one day my family left our island home and went to live in Canada. A northern adventure where the question of representation was rarely asked. I didn’t see little girls like me on TV. Images of men in suits going to offices didn’t look like my father even though he did exactly that Monday to Friday. Women were more visible. There were models in Vogue, and on the screens Cicely Tyson, Diahann Carroll and Diana Ross. One thing was true in every case, the hair was impeccable. My mom was good at a lot of things but hair wasn’t her strong suit. Or maybe it was my unruly dense mane coupled with a tender scalp that limited her imagination. I did not graduate from braids, until junior high. And when I say braids, I mean pigtails, not swishy ropes à la Bo Derek. Style was secondary to clean and controlled tresses.
Eventually I graduated to the hot comb, sitting still for over an hour while all the kinks were pressed out. Later we moved on to chemical processes. By high school I was able to mimic the styles of the girls in class, though the results were similar to my efforts with the styling head. My hair sagas were like the stories that populated the family bookshelf; struggles of adversity, overcoming nappiness and rebel strands on a misty day. I was a voracious reader but inspirational stories of rags to riches were notoriously short on melanin. There were many stories of faith and resilience but the Jeffersons were the only ones who had moved on up.
As the days and years passed I followed my love of stories to a natural conclusion. I found a way to literally play a part in the storytelling process. I became an actor. I’ve been lucky to play roles I never saw anyone like me play when I was a kid and it is a privilege to play these roles. One day last summer a magical thing happened. I was cast in a story I’ve waited for my whole life. It’s a story of struggle and triumph. It’s a story of resilience and determination. And so much more. It’s the story of Madam CJ Walker, America’s first self made female millionaire. And she’s black. She created not just hair care products, but jobs and training. And beyond her personal success she had a mandate to uplift the race. Her story is over a hundred years old and it’s finally being told. Stories are powerful. They inform, inspire and incite. It is a privilege to see positive endorsements. If you’re used to it you might take it for granted that it’s a fair reflection of the world around you. While I wish I’d seen this story as a little girl I’m thrilled to play a part in it’s telling now. The trailer for SELF MADE can be seen here. Tune in, you’re sure to see a new world.
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