The Hair Journey

I never thought I’d have the courage to do it, but here I am, publicly describing the reservations I have about my own hair. See, I have what I like to call, “nappy hair.” This hair texture consists of fierce, comb-breaking, neck-snapping, mama-sweating, gut-wrenching naps that make a normal black woman absolutely dread waking up to deal with them in the morning. For those of you who remem­ber the Imus incident, I know that you probably shuddered when you read that last statement. But “nappy” hair is nothing to be ashamed of; in fact, “nappy” simply means that I have super tightly coiled hair. Unfortunately, there are so many misconceptions out there about “black hair” that no one is willing to openly talk about. This is why I started my blog, “Nappy Like Yo’ Pappy,” and why I am writing this article: to shed light on an invisible but very real issue that faces black women every single day, espe­cially here at Scripps.

I am at a point in my life where I am fed up with the permed ends and the awkward line of demarcation be­tween my natural hair and my permed hair. A perm or a re­laxer is a chemical treatment that alters the state of one’s hair to be more straight and “manageable.” I had a mini nervous breakdown a few months ago because two days be­fore my students for the Scripps College Academy arrived on campus, my hair decided to break as much as it could before causing me to die slowly. I cried loudly, shouted up to the heavens, and then I forced anyone who had a car to rush me over to Target so that I could find any product pos­sible to stop it. My close friend Danyelle told me that it was just simple breakage, something that was normal due to my recent removal of my kinky twists, a hairstyle that I’m wearing currently. I didn’t want to hear it. I was convinced that my hair was falling out and that there was nothing I could do to stop it. Now let’s fast-forward three months. I am sitting here with an intricately twisted hairstyle known as Senegalese twists, and I don’t have to worry about my hair breakage at all. But everyone should know that my hair is super curly and much shorter underneath.

Most black women wear braids and other “natu­ral styles” out of convenience and because they’re simply beautiful. The most common question I am asked on this campus is, “Now, is this your real hair?” or “How much of this is your actual hair?” To which I look astounded and an­swer back, “Why does that even matter?” Why can’t people just acknowledge that my hairstyle is beautiful and leave it at that? And when I take my twists down and decide to proudly wear my afro, I’ll get the question, “Well, why did you cut off all your beautiful hair? It was so pretty and long.” Statements like these leave me honestly afraid of looking too “black” in a predominately white institution such as Scripps. I will become the girl who went natural: the afro wearing, peace-sign loving, Erykah Badu listening, automatically positive while still being angry, overly inde­pendent black woman. I’m not sure I’m altogether ready to deal with that pressure. Will I still be attractive in the midst of these strange beauty ideals in Claremont? At par­ties, what would I do? I can’t fling my hair this way and that. I can’t just hop right on into the pool when it gets hot; my natural texture will become too apparent. I can’t deal with the silly questions I get like, “Do you wash your hair?” And to those of you who have wondered, the an­swer is, “Of course, I do.” Or questions like, “Is your hair naturally frizzy?” To which I answer, “What does that even mean?”

With encounters like these, I wonder what people’s reactions would be to my natural, curly hair.

This is an unrecognized battle that black women go through in a world that constantly barrages them with images of Eurocentric beauty ideals and forces them to put into question their own beauty every single day. Most people don’t understand that black hair is just another one of those issues that black women have to face. As a wom­an, hair is one of the standards of beauty, and for black women, there is an immense pressure to have “good hair,” or hair that is straighter, longer, and arguably more white. It is a strange fact, but it is very true. And after years of straightening one’s hair, the hair follicle is ultimately dam­aged and left limp from the extreme harshness of these chemicals.

Most black women receive their first perms or re­laxers as young as 8 years old. At that time, young black girls are keenly aware of the difference between their hair and the hair of their classmates of other races. Think about it. When is the last time you saw a kinky-haired Barbie doll? This is not by any means a new phenomenon. There are some women who walk around with their hair natural and others who walk around with “natural” hairstyles, i.e. any braided/twisted style that doesn’t require chemical al­teration of the texture. And then there are those of us who think that our hair is either unmanageable or too difficult for constant upkeep, so we rely on the relaxer to keep up an “I have good hair” image.

With that said, everyone has a different hair jour­ney. Even while talking about the issues of “good” hair ver­sus “bad” hair, generalizations still occur because not all black hair is the same and not everyone thinks that their hair is “nappy.” Approaching someone without knowing certain information about how they talk about their hair can be very damaging. One reason why incidents occur and become racial controversy is that it just isn’t the same when “other” people are labeling your texture. And while this issue is far more complex than one article can cover, the truth of it is that even something as insignificant as hair can directly define a person’s experience in the world.

Nappylikeyopappy.blogspot.com