It’s the Hair For Me

Beauty comes from celebrating what’s right in front of us. Whether extravagant or simple.

Getting your hair done is a special ritual Black girls and women have taken part in for generations. From early childhood we begin the process of combing through our hair and simultaneously combing through ideas about ourselves and our standards of beauty. When I was a small girl my hair reached down my back to just above my waist. It was thick and strong, free, and untouched by chemicals. It grew under the care of my mom’s delicate hands as she would wash, comb, and blow dry my sister’s and my hair. Every week, she would work quickly and carefully to untangle and comb through our thick hair. I can still recall the sound and smell of her opening the Blue Magic and Pink Luster hair oil to spread on each parted section. She’d then complete the style by braiding it and finishing her work with colorful bubbles at the end of each braid.

On special occasions she carefully held onto a golden hot comb as she underwent smoothing some sections of our freshly blown hair to make them straight: pressing down on every piece and laying all our edges. We would all sit still folding down our ears and scrunching our necks trying not get burned in the process. After what felt like hours she would eventually finish. We would excitedly run our fingers through our hair and toss it back and forth over our shoulders thrilled to finally have hair like the people we saw on tv. On one particular occasion, I got to keep my hair out all weekend. By the time I got to school on Monday what was straight hair had turned into a small black cotton candy-like fro. No doubt from a weekend full of playing outside in the humidity and my continually running my fingers through my hair. I was still so excited to go to school and show my friends my new hair. Finally it looked just like theirs.

My excitement quickly became heartbreak when they saw me and immediately began laughing. “What happened to your hair?” “You look like you got electrocuted.” “It looks so weird.” “It doesn’t look weird, it looks ugly.”

My heart was crushed. Shame and embarrassment spread all over my face. I could not wait for the day to end. They were just a few words but they carried a weight that would try to drag me down long after they were spoken over me. I didn’t say much at the time, but it became a moment I would look back on wishing I had been more vocal. 

Years later, I entered my college dorm room in Lynchburg, Virginia, and was met with a similarly cruel discourse. I was saddened to again be in a room full of white peers, who were friends, and even a person of color, who should’ve been an ally, and felt what I had felt so many years earlier. Again the conversation was centered around ignorance about Black hair. Again I felt the same shame, hurt, and embarrassment trying to make me feel small, but this time I knew I wasn’t. I wasn’t small: I knew my worth. I knew that my words had power and I had an opportunity to speak up for myself even when no one else would. I knew exactly what to say. Years of learning to love myself had prepared me for this very moment and there was no shortage of words. I said everything I needed to and then some. I clapped back. I went all the way off. Shut it down. 

And for a while it felt good. Everyone in that room knew that I had won. I felt strong and powerful, but then, almost as quickly as that battle was won, others began. I realized there would be no end to needing to respond for myself and those who looked like me.

The reality is every Black woman has her “moment when” and probably many more moments after that: moments where they realize that ignorance rather than truth and understanding have been someone’s education, meaning they will face continual micro-aggressions and blatant racism. It’s those significant moments when we realize the world views us as something other than what the Creator of the universe said that we are. Loved. Brave. Created with purpose. Completely captivating. Irresistibly beautiful.

Beauty comes from celebrating what’s right in front of us. Whether extravagant or simple. Whether it looks like us or something we’ve never seen. The moment that we begin to see the dignity and worth in what God has created within us and others, we begin to see beauty. Seeing people just as they are. Recognizing that they were created with purpose. Our job is to behold the beauty without altering it or working to fit it into a box it was never meant to be placed in.

Black womanhood is beautiful.

Black womanhood perseveres and prevails.

I have the privilege of being born into a family of strong Black women. I have been given the gift of a rich culture. Raised on food that speaks to my soul and wisdom gained through my ancestors’ struggles. At times it feels that Black womanhood is equal parts beauty, joy, and excellence to grief, worry, and weight. I have wondered how my birth plan will play out and if my child and I will survive. I have spent nights worrying and dreaming about what my son’s life will be like. Yet, I have experienced the joy of seeing my brother and father live and grow old. I have held my mother’s hand as she prayed over me throughout my labor and delivery. I have been surrounded by all shapes, sizes, and skin tones of beautiful Black women. 

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