Brooklyn 1995 - It’s the first day of 4th grade at a new school. The butterflies in my stomach were going crazy. I put on my brand new uniform (getting us to conform at an early age), a wool jumper, which was stiff like a board with starch. I had tried it on a few times before and practiced introducing myself in the mirror. But now the practice was over, and the first day of school had come. I was equipped with my new Jansport backpack that I begged my mom to get me. There was no way I was walking around with the same book bag from last year. Hey, what can I say, backpacks were a big deal back then -- well backpacks and binders, Lisa Frank binders to be more specific. It had to be Lisa Frank.
The night before, my mom braided my hair in plaits. The process required me seated on a pillow between my mom’s legs, my butt about to go numb, while she parted my hair into sections, oiled my scalped, and braided. Sometimes, well, rather most of the time, I hated this process. I was what you called a tender headed child. One tug, and my speech was overwhelmed ouches and the ohs. My hair was the type that would wreak havoc on those plastic tooth combs -- by the end, that thing looked like it’d been through war, ravaged and toothless.
Although I was nervous, I was ready for my first day. I had my new book bag, my fresh braids, and my new uniform. I was straight. My dad dropped me off in front of the school. All of a sudden, that coolness, that Brooklyn swagger, went right out of the window. All the kids were lined up outside, talking and messing around. My heart was pounding through my chest. I waved goodbye to my dad and looked ahead to the future 8 hours of my life. “What if they all laugh at me? What if I won’t make any friends?” I thought. To my relief, the bell rang right as I approached the line. We were met by our teacher and taken to class.
Of course, the formal introduction was in order – “we are pleased to welcome a new student to our class,” yaddi, yaddi yadda. I mumbled a pathetic “hi” and took my seat. I was seated at a table of four. To my immediate right sat a talkative light-skinned boy named Matt, to my left, sat a just as talkative boy, the color of dark chocolate, named Paulie, and right diagonally from me, sat a quiet and serious brown-skinned girl named Natasha. Our teacher started to begin our lesson, when it suddenly dawned on me that I had forgotten my pencil case. I was internally freaking out. How could I have forgotten my beautiful, freshly stocked and equipped Lisa Frank pencil case? The girl across from me asked nicely, “Do you want a pen?” And I was totally relieved.
So I survived my first day, then my first week, then my first month. I started making new friends -- Natasha being the first. Before you knew it, I was part of a posse. The majority of my close friends at the time had always been Black or of color. As I got older, the group became more mixed. I started to notice how all the little Black girls would have the cute press and curl with the bang, or braided with extensions. My hair would usually either be out curly or braided in big braids. Up until that point, I never had my hair professionally straightened. My mom tried once with the hot comb on the burner (old school), but I cried so much from the accidental burnings and tugging of my hair, that my mom never revisited. And my mom usually preferred my hair in its natural state (she thought it to be the most beautiful). Therefore, no frequent straightening, and definitely no perm. So after seeing my girlfriends with their cute pressed hair, I begged my mom to get my hair straightened, all cute with curls and bangs. She finally broke and called her hair dresser friend, who had a salon on Flatbush Avenue.
Celia was an older woman from Trinidad. She had the longest fuchsia nails, wore too much rouge, too much eye shadow, and tied it all together with some hot pink lipstick. She did mostly church ladies’ hair and frequently weaved my mom’s hair. I could smell the burning hair, perm and grease as I walked into the salon. She motioned me to come sit at her chair. My mom explained to her what I wanted done and she smiled and nodded knowingly. She undid my curly puff and said, “Child, you have some hair on you. Ima need a blow dryer for this.” I remember, because it is engrained in my memory, my hair was tangled something lovely equaling massive amount of pain and trauma. She proceeded to blow dry my hair using the little plastic comb attachment to detangle my dry curly hair. I was screaming and crying. The embarrassment took a back seat to pain. The first couple of tugs, I tried to keep it cool because I was in public. I didn’t want to embarrass my mama or anything. But after she finished the first little section, and proceeded to the middle and the back of my head -- where my tightest curls lay -- I was emotionally done. And the added bonus, her long, fuchsia daggers would get caught in my hair. Six hours of screaming and crying later, I got my beloved press and curl. Everyone said how pretty I was, and how worth it it was to straighten that “mop” I had on my head before.
When I returned to school that following Monday, everyone loved my hair. I remembered when I would wear my hair curly, I would hear, “God, why is your hair so big?” or “You’re hair is so ugly.” Oh, how the tides have turned. One girl even said how much prettier it looked when it was straighter. All the boys who used to make fun of my hair were seeing me now in a different light. I guess she’s actually kind of cute now. It was a new me, but not a permanent me -- this new me could be totally transformed with a single drop of water. I tried to keep this new me as long as I could. I was so in love with flipping my hair like the White girls. But, my mom finally broke the news to me and said, “Baby girl, it is time to wash your hair.” But at that point, I didn’t mind. My scalp was itching me like crazy. I tried to hold on to the straight look as long as I could.
Since I was traumatized from the last time I got my hair straightened, it was awhile before I would get it straightened again. Well, let’s just say that it was awhile before I got my hair straightened again by Celia. But once my sister introduced me to the Dominican salon, my world changed. But actually around that time, I didn’t mind so much wearing my hair curly. Why you may ask? The Spice Girls, that’s why. My hair was starting to be “in” even though some of my peers still didn’t think so. When I first saw their video, I thought, “Wow, that girl has hair just like me!” I began to idolize Scary Spice. She was a symbol of my own juvenile self-acceptance.
The years passed and I began to bask in my hair as more and more artists started coming out with their natural hair. I realize how important it was to see people rocking their natural hair at the time. Musicians like Kelis, even Maxwell (before he cut all of his hair off) help shaped my hair identity in elementary school.
By 7th grade, I started to listen to musicians such as Amel Larrieux, Les Nubians, Zap Mama, and Angelique Kidjo, who in some way, I felt a connection with. And as a result, I began to stray away from what was main stream through my hair and style. Music played such a huge role in the way I viewed myself. Anything that was mainstream, I craved the opposite. This mentality would be highlighted throughout high school -- naturalness, the knowledge of one’s roots, Africa…
One positive memory from elementary school that I will always cherish was when I wore my hair out curly, and my 7th grade teacher (a White woman) looked in my eyes and told me how beautiful my hair was and how jealous she was of it, in front of the whole class. It made my day.
To be continued...
Embarrassing photos on the way!!!
*To respect privacy, some names have been changed.
The night before, my mom braided my hair in plaits. The process required me seated on a pillow between my mom’s legs, my butt about to go numb, while she parted my hair into sections, oiled my scalped, and braided. Sometimes, well, rather most of the time, I hated this process. I was what you called a tender headed child. One tug, and my speech was overwhelmed ouches and the ohs. My hair was the type that would wreak havoc on those plastic tooth combs -- by the end, that thing looked like it’d been through war, ravaged and toothless.
Although I was nervous, I was ready for my first day. I had my new book bag, my fresh braids, and my new uniform. I was straight. My dad dropped me off in front of the school. All of a sudden, that coolness, that Brooklyn swagger, went right out of the window. All the kids were lined up outside, talking and messing around. My heart was pounding through my chest. I waved goodbye to my dad and looked ahead to the future 8 hours of my life. “What if they all laugh at me? What if I won’t make any friends?” I thought. To my relief, the bell rang right as I approached the line. We were met by our teacher and taken to class.
Of course, the formal introduction was in order – “we are pleased to welcome a new student to our class,” yaddi, yaddi yadda. I mumbled a pathetic “hi” and took my seat. I was seated at a table of four. To my immediate right sat a talkative light-skinned boy named Matt, to my left, sat a just as talkative boy, the color of dark chocolate, named Paulie, and right diagonally from me, sat a quiet and serious brown-skinned girl named Natasha. Our teacher started to begin our lesson, when it suddenly dawned on me that I had forgotten my pencil case. I was internally freaking out. How could I have forgotten my beautiful, freshly stocked and equipped Lisa Frank pencil case? The girl across from me asked nicely, “Do you want a pen?” And I was totally relieved.
So I survived my first day, then my first week, then my first month. I started making new friends -- Natasha being the first. Before you knew it, I was part of a posse. The majority of my close friends at the time had always been Black or of color. As I got older, the group became more mixed. I started to notice how all the little Black girls would have the cute press and curl with the bang, or braided with extensions. My hair would usually either be out curly or braided in big braids. Up until that point, I never had my hair professionally straightened. My mom tried once with the hot comb on the burner (old school), but I cried so much from the accidental burnings and tugging of my hair, that my mom never revisited. And my mom usually preferred my hair in its natural state (she thought it to be the most beautiful). Therefore, no frequent straightening, and definitely no perm. So after seeing my girlfriends with their cute pressed hair, I begged my mom to get my hair straightened, all cute with curls and bangs. She finally broke and called her hair dresser friend, who had a salon on Flatbush Avenue.
Celia was an older woman from Trinidad. She had the longest fuchsia nails, wore too much rouge, too much eye shadow, and tied it all together with some hot pink lipstick. She did mostly church ladies’ hair and frequently weaved my mom’s hair. I could smell the burning hair, perm and grease as I walked into the salon. She motioned me to come sit at her chair. My mom explained to her what I wanted done and she smiled and nodded knowingly. She undid my curly puff and said, “Child, you have some hair on you. Ima need a blow dryer for this.” I remember, because it is engrained in my memory, my hair was tangled something lovely equaling massive amount of pain and trauma. She proceeded to blow dry my hair using the little plastic comb attachment to detangle my dry curly hair. I was screaming and crying. The embarrassment took a back seat to pain. The first couple of tugs, I tried to keep it cool because I was in public. I didn’t want to embarrass my mama or anything. But after she finished the first little section, and proceeded to the middle and the back of my head -- where my tightest curls lay -- I was emotionally done. And the added bonus, her long, fuchsia daggers would get caught in my hair. Six hours of screaming and crying later, I got my beloved press and curl. Everyone said how pretty I was, and how worth it it was to straighten that “mop” I had on my head before.
When I returned to school that following Monday, everyone loved my hair. I remembered when I would wear my hair curly, I would hear, “God, why is your hair so big?” or “You’re hair is so ugly.” Oh, how the tides have turned. One girl even said how much prettier it looked when it was straighter. All the boys who used to make fun of my hair were seeing me now in a different light. I guess she’s actually kind of cute now. It was a new me, but not a permanent me -- this new me could be totally transformed with a single drop of water. I tried to keep this new me as long as I could. I was so in love with flipping my hair like the White girls. But, my mom finally broke the news to me and said, “Baby girl, it is time to wash your hair.” But at that point, I didn’t mind. My scalp was itching me like crazy. I tried to hold on to the straight look as long as I could.
Since I was traumatized from the last time I got my hair straightened, it was awhile before I would get it straightened again. Well, let’s just say that it was awhile before I got my hair straightened again by Celia. But once my sister introduced me to the Dominican salon, my world changed. But actually around that time, I didn’t mind so much wearing my hair curly. Why you may ask? The Spice Girls, that’s why. My hair was starting to be “in” even though some of my peers still didn’t think so. When I first saw their video, I thought, “Wow, that girl has hair just like me!” I began to idolize Scary Spice. She was a symbol of my own juvenile self-acceptance.
The years passed and I began to bask in my hair as more and more artists started coming out with their natural hair. I realize how important it was to see people rocking their natural hair at the time. Musicians like Kelis, even Maxwell (before he cut all of his hair off) help shaped my hair identity in elementary school.
By 7th grade, I started to listen to musicians such as Amel Larrieux, Les Nubians, Zap Mama, and Angelique Kidjo, who in some way, I felt a connection with. And as a result, I began to stray away from what was main stream through my hair and style. Music played such a huge role in the way I viewed myself. Anything that was mainstream, I craved the opposite. This mentality would be highlighted throughout high school -- naturalness, the knowledge of one’s roots, Africa…
One positive memory from elementary school that I will always cherish was when I wore my hair out curly, and my 7th grade teacher (a White woman) looked in my eyes and told me how beautiful my hair was and how jealous she was of it, in front of the whole class. It made my day.
To be continued...
Embarrassing photos on the way!!!
*To respect privacy, some names have been changed.