I always say that if a man can accept your hair in its natural state than it is true appreciation. My boyfriend of almost three years loves my hair curly and wouldn’t want it any other way. I met my boyfriend my junior year of college in the most natural state possible, practically no makeup and my hair big and frizzy (I wasn’t yet educated in proper hair care). Actually to be more specific, I had just gotten off a 3 hour or so bus ride to visit a friend at school…so I was not at my most glamorous. But he always remembered me that day as looking beautiful. He always pushes me to appreciate who I am and to take pride in my “lion head.”
This reaction and love for my natural hair, though, has not always been this consistent. It is quite interesting to observe the type of guy who compliments your hair when it is natural and the type of guy who compliments you when your hair is straight. Interestingly, I started to reminisce on my college days to remember how I wore my hair and most importantly why I wore it the way I did.
Now to give you a little context, my university was predominantly white. I can remember the first two years of school occasionally wearing my hair natural, but a lot of the time wearing it slicked back or straight. I remember the comment of my first college roommate, exclaiming as she discovered a strand of my hair on our dorm room floor, “Ew, is this a pubic hair?! No, that’s actually my hair,” I thought. I felt hurt and embarrassed.
There was yet another “memorable” incident where one night I wasn’t up to going out because I was wasn’t feeling well and on top of that it was raining and cold. One of the people that I was supposed to be going out with assumed that the reason I didn’t want to go was because it was raining and because, well, black girls can’t get their hair wet.
But the one incident that takes the cake (even though they were all pretty priceless) was one evening I went out to an Irish pub (I know) and this was actually the occasional night where I wore my hair out. So, as I danced, trying to have a good time, a drunken white guy came up to me and put his hands in my hair (like touching my scalp) and exclaimed “Wow, your hair is so cool. It feels so cool.” What the hell?! How a stranger just comes and puts their hands all up in your hair is beyond me. So, I pretty much cursed him out right then. However, the girls who I came with just sat around and giggled- it was no big deal to them. They saw a type of comedy in my exotification and objectification. Anyway, to get back to the point, that was one reason why I chose to wear my hair back, to avoid that certain type of objectification and the feeling of hurt and embarrassment.
When I would go to predominantly white parties, I was usually the only brown spot in the room. I was once greeted walking in with “Yo, yo, yo…50 cent”- the correlation?- well you’re black so you must listen to 50 cent- trying to find a medium or a common ground to link me with. But what would sometimes frustrate me, being an 18 year old girl-I would see the other girls around me getting attention from guys and wonder why no one would talk to me (why would I want those guys to talk to me at those parties in the first place is beyond me when I think about it- But I was young and naïve). “There must be something wrong with me.” I used to think. It was a question of insecurity- being a brown frizzy headed girl trying to fit into a white concept of beauty. I partly remedied the “fitting in” notion by wearing my hair back or straight to hide a part of myself.
“Wow, it feels almost like my hair,” my white friend gasped, as brushed her hands through my freshly straightened hair.
This is what white society has down to so many women of color- force them to believe that white is more beautiful, that blonde has got it going on. I admit for a brief period in my journey I thought to myself that it must be so nice to be blonde- you have it all.
I kind of lost myself for that first year and a half at college. In high-school, I was the exact opposite of those sentiments. I was all about Black power and Africa. My college essay was about how Africa inspired me to write my poetry at the time, and it continues to inspire me to this day. And, it would be that same Africa that would save me from my own corrosive thoughts of assimilation. It all started on the first day of my Afro-Am class (Introduction to African Studies) when the alarm bell went off it my head. What the hell was I thinking? I caught myself quick.
To be continued…
Photo courtesy of The New York Times. Frederic Dupoux/Getty Images