CottonT

Getting Started with this Hair Blog Thing


"You sure are one sexy mama," says my husband who has witnessed my frustrations and mounting stress over this little blogging project today. I've been in near tears since 8 a.m. this morning after a series of seemingly useless phone calls to a string of customer service representatives speaking fluent IT jargon. The idea of this project was to provide a place for women to discuss personal insights into the spiritual, emotional and psychological aspects of going natural. But I have written nary a word to that end. Today I'm expected to become some sort of technology guru.  I greeted the day in a stern panic at the sight of my site no longer in existence. As well, my new fancy email address was no longer receiving messages. This was especially problematic because I spent yesterday driving my idea around to various natural hair shops, encouraging professional naturalistas to involve their clients.

So I spent hours, hair still matted in my satin bonnet, troubleshooting and on the phone with my domain host. My customer service reps were patient and diligent and it looks like we're up and running!

Between convulsions, I helped my husband prime our walls from red back to white. I'm sweaty. I'm tired. My hair is absolutely a mess. And he calls me "sexy mama" as if I had been parading around in one of my bridal shower gifts.  For the last two hours I've been a complete potato sitting on the couch in the preverbal oversized t-shirt and panties, and with paint still smeared on my knees. And as encouraging as he was about my Big Chop (March 1!), he's still not a fan of my little cottony fro. Yet, he still thinks I'm a catch. These days, his words to me have meant more than ever.

When I first began skipping a few touch ups, I wasn't entirely committed to going natural. I knew I wanted to see my real hair texture around my 30th year, but I wasn't one of those natural hair fanatics I saw on YouTube (well, maybe now I am).  Over time, though, the two textures became unbearable. Plus, I was getting more and more curious and excited about the way my new growth felt in my fingers.  I have always cherished my hair. It never grew past my shoulders, but it was thick, it blew in the wind following the days of a fresh perm, and it was one thing I thought was pretty about myself. Until it came time to cut it off, I never knew just how much I attributed my beauty to my hair. Was it the best thing I had going on?

I confessed to a beloved co-worker that I wasn't sure if I was quite cute enough to cut my hair down to two inches. She assured me I was "strikingly"pretty and I just decided to believe her because this was the easiest choice.  A few days later, I strapped on my big girl panties, bought a pair of scissors, put on a brave face, and....SNIP, SNIP.  Turns out, my cottony hair still contributes to my prettiness.  And according to the hubs, I'm still one sexy mama.


Black Hair and Self Hate

I recently attended the Raleigh Natural Hair Expo. It was my first time at such an event and I was really interested in seeing how other young ladies were wearing and caring for their natural hair. The best part of the event was the session I attend, "The Linguistics of Natural Hair" presented by Schatzi of Schatzi's Day Spa. Among all of the witty and profound insights littering her lecture, one thing stuck with me most. She said that when African American people see you wearing your hair in its natural state, they are reminded of who they are, and where they came from. And too often, they don't like what they see.

We African American people cannot change our skin (although many of us try). But our hair is one of the most easily altered physical indicators of our African ancestry. And we go to great lengths to do so. Press and curls, perms, and texturizers all work to make us look a little less ethnic. A little more palatable to our European American neighbors. We fit in more easily this way, don't we? We have learned from them what is "civilized", "beautiful", "acceptable", "professional", and "appropriate." And those nappy knots growing from our scalp ain't it. We have adopted these lies, claimed them as our own, and preached them to the masses of color. Yes, Dark is Lovely when your hair is straight.  We perpetrate as though we are proud, but we are not. We haven't been proud since the 60s when people didn't need a YouTube video to know how to rock a 'fro. These days, we're only proud when it's in vogue. And what's in style is rarely dictated or endorsed by us.  Golden brown  and deep chocolate skin? That's in style. Nice plump lips? Maybelline sells that. Story telling curves? Definitely in. Kinky, coily, tightly curled hair? No white person really wants that. So we don't either.

CARRIE MAE WEEMS (1953-   )
Looking into the mirror, the Black Woman asked,
"Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who's the finest of them all?"
The mirror says, "Snow White you Black B*tch, and don't
you forget it."

Admit it, Black Folks. We don't much like ourselves. Not necessarily as individuals, rather, as a group. And our inability to accept our hair as is, is the proof. The discomfort you feel when someone is wearing a TWA next to your perm...it's like they've outed you. They turned a spotlight on the deep dark secret you've been keeping since you were eleven. Is your kitchen showing? Oh no, will they find out that your Cherokee heritage was 7 grandmothers ago and diluted by all the Africans? The feelings that come with seeing your hair reflected back to you by others is evidence of what you feel (or have been taught to feel) about Black people. It's akin to the feeling that rushes in when you're enjoying fine dining and soft conversation with other Black people. Then you hear jovial laughter and elevated banter coming from another group of Black people. And for some reason, you're embarrassed. You're agitated. You're taking it personally. What will people think of you, when they see them?

It is legitimate to be concerned about judging eyes. But who has the right to judge us but us? Who decides what is appropriate and beautiful for hair of African descent, but those of African descent? Yet we have been judged by whites of years past. They deemed us unworthy and our hair unlovely. They shunned our glory, so we have covered it up as best we can. This should not be.

It's not a matter of whether or not you wear your hair straight. It's the reason for choosing to wear our hair straight that we all have to think about. It's easy to argue that we do not wear our hair straight in order to shroud our true color. But this argument should also be called into question.

Do we love ourselves or just the parts for which European Americans have given their blessings? How do you really feel about your hair? How do you really feel about yourself? Grow your hair out, wear it in public and see.

The Kitchen

Why do we call it that? You know what I mean. The kitchen. The curliest hairs at the nape of the neck. The ones that bead up and are most stubborn to the all-powerful heat of the iron. The deciding factor in whether the straightening efforts were a job well-done. The kitchen. The part that must carefully be hidden lest the truth about our hair texture be told: that beneath the shiny, carefully crafted Shirley Temple spirals resting on your shoulders, lurk knotted naps growing wickedly in the dark.

Is this why we call it the kitchen? I think of a visit to fine restaurant where the linens are white, the service is impeccable and the food is gourmet. Everything is pristine. No one should ever see the real story unfolding backstage. The dirty dishes, the peals of onion, the dirty mop water on the floor. The spilled sauces, the yelling cooks, the pots that are burning or boiling over. This is the kitchen. The place behind the perfect facade that no one is ever meant to see.

I want to ask who told us to hide the kitchen, but that would be as silly as me asking a little first grader I know who it was that told her that her hair was nappy. She had been pulling out strands of hair at the nape of her neck for months. Her hair was faithfully maintained straight or tightly braided to perfect neatness each day. But every stray strand that dared to misbehave found itself subject to the tweezing of her little fingers. Finally she had plucked herself an inch and a half bald from ear to ear. We assumed it was a nervous habit of some sort. Then I asked her directly why she kept pulling out her hair, she said in frustration, "It's nappy! The front part is straight, but this part is nappy."

I'm sure your shaking your head, thinking, "How sad...She's so young to be so ashamed." And, "Who is telling her that her hair is nappy?" I remind you that it is needless to ask this. The people who straighten her hair tell her. Her Barbie dolls tell her. The Disney Channel tells her. The commercials tell her. Society tells her. Every time we straighten our hair and attempt to hide the kitchen for the sake of beauty, we agree with her.

When I was transitioning, my kitchen was bangin'. One day, a friend brushed a coily hair from my shoulder and said with a wink under her breath, "It was just one from the kitchen." She thought she was sparing me from complete mortification. However, my transition marked a critical turning point for me. She did not spare me from embarrassment, because I wasn't. For the first time I didn't feel the need to hide my kitchen, my texture or myself. Dirty dishes cannot be found at the nape of my neck. God's perfect design for my hair does. Of this I am not ashamed.