#bighairdontcare

Oh hair. It’s a busy subject, a hub for much physical judgement. For many women our image is entangled with our tresses. For black women it’s an even knottier affair with as many twists as we have curl patterns.
Allow me to unbraid the journey to my current moment of #bighairdontcare. 

I recently bemoaned to a group of friends my dread at flat ironing my hair for an upcoming audition. Without missing a beat they were unanimous in their shrugged “so don’t” response. I clarified, ‘she’s a polished professional’. This is long established code for hair that is ‘white-straight’. My friends insisted that the current moment has heightened a shift in this assumed esthetic. It’s true a number of recent articles on systemic racial bias cite the barrage of beauty images that don’t include all our glorious textures. 

I’ve struggled with my hair image for the majority of my life. And I’m not talking about finding the perfect cut. 

When I was a likkle girl, I had the bruising combination of a massive mane with a sensitive scalp. The routines of washing and combing were torture. There was little sympathy for a ‘tender headed’ girl with good hair. My long cork screw curls were the closest thing to the flowing manes on our shampoo bottles; my cries were like jeers of ingratitude.

Once I was trusted to sit still and not fidget for a minimum of an hour, I graduated to the hot comb. The hot comb is the precursor to the flat iron. Since the days of Madam CJ Walker black hairdressers have wielded this tool with the precision and dexterity of a ninja with nunchucks. But this was a temporary solution to my unruly mane. Literally temporary. The slightest moisture was the undoing of all our efforts to avoid singeing an earlobe. 

By the time I hit puberty my exhausted mother gave in to the rigors of chemical straightening. A rainy day was still like the complete annihilation of hot oil poured from the parapets but generally the coif lasted longer than other efforts. But there was still the collateral damage of chemical burns to the scalp, which despite my darling mum’s best efforts there was alway a scab. I had already been primed with the mantra that ‘one must suffer for beauty’ so I soldiered on. 

Adolescence is a minefield for the ego but a young black woman navigating the world of white beauty standards comes out the other side with either the bravura of a Navy Seal or a real case of PTSD.  There were endless excuses to avoid swimming pools and inventive ways to navigate sudden rain showers.

Sometime late in high school I had a reckoning when I read The Autobiography of Malcolm X and the story of ‘conking’ his hair with a lye mixture to get it white-straight. Besides relating to the scalp on fire, I questioned for the first time the chemical process I was subjecting myself to bi monthly. 
And then came ELLE magazine. The US version launched and I saw black girls with their natural curls. I finally saw me reflected on a glossy page. I stopped relaxing my hair that year.

This was the beginning of a new era of struggles; finding the perfect products to tame frizz and volume, and convince my mom and aunties that my new look was acceptable. It was as if I’d shaved my head, my tender headed protests had gone too far. My mass of curls were deemed unkempt and unacceptable. I endured the ritual of my mother looking at my hair and passive aggressively asking “Are you going out like that?” It was in the same resigned tone as “Do you have your keys?” I always answered with a simple yes.
Finally I was going out into the world embracing my hair on my terms but sadly it wasn’t received with open arms at home. In time my mother accepted my big hair look, especially once it was clear it wasn’t stopping me from working. I didn’t need the accepted corporate look she had grown up with. 

I did have a straight hair relapse when I reached my forties. I had arrived in the category of polished professionals for the majority of my auditions. Suddenly the curls were too much. Managers discussed a new look. Something more polished. Straight hair.

There were new products now. The Brazilian Blowout. Not as healthy and non-toxic as advertised. My abundance of hair created so much smoke during one procedure that the alarms triggered the arrival of the Fire Department. True story.
Today styling tools are so much more advanced that I can actually blow dry my hair straight without any chemicals. Some days I enjoy the lightness of wearing it straight. Some days I want to exult in my natural glory. And I can be polished and professional curly or straight. Whatever the day my mane flows on my terms.