A Life of Black Hair

I have been aware of my hair all my life. As a child, each morning I sat on the floor between my mother’s knees as she calmly oiled and plaited my hair until I learned to do the ancient skill myself. In junior high school I wore my hair tightly pulled back into a short pony tail. During humid days the pony tail was a puff. In high school, during the age of Aquarius and Black Power, my father would not allow me to wear an Afro. He never gave a reason. After graduation I wore my Afro large and proud. As a teenager with “good hair,” I wasn’t allowed to use the hot comb on my hair as my older sisters did. I would sit in the kitchen watching the hot comb sizzle through their hair as they laughed and talked. As an adult I went to the hairdresser to have a burning lye mixture applied to straighten my hair. My father raved about the results. My mother’s face was fixed in a scorn. I was confused. During my second visit to the hairdresser my scalp was burned so badly I developed weeping sores. I had to cut my hair off. My mother lectured me about using chemicals on my hair as she put healing ointment on my scalp each day. I returned to my afro. During the Disco years I cut my hair to half an inch in length. The sweat and smoke from dancing every night meant my hair needed to be washed daily. This was too difficult with longer hair. I continued to wear my hair short for most of my life despite feeling guilty as a black woman about cutting it. During the times I let my hair grow out I relaxed it myself. I didn’t trust a hairdresser to do it after my earlier experience. I also didn’t want all the blackness taken out of my hair. Straightening my hair made me feel uncomfortable, as if I am trying to not be black. I thought I should keep it natural. I believed then as I do now that when I become comfortable with my choice for my hair, I would be at peace with myself as a black woman. Now I am growing my hair out because it is so thin in places. If I cut it short I look like an almost bald headed old man. I grow it out to hide the baldness. When brushing my hair I remember sitting with my mother as she brushed my hair. It’s a lovely memory.