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Authors: Leslie Dubois
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anymore. I'm just
going to get a relaxer and it will be so much easier."
"Easier?
It won't be easier. It will just be the same. It's just what you're used
to."
Marin
sat her cooler filled with milk and ginger beer on my coffee table. "Do
you know why natural hair seems so
hard? It's because we've never learned how to deal with our own hair. We've had
weaves and perms and Jheri curls all our lives. We
know how to deal with processed hair, although not very well. Maybe if we
started dealing with our own hair
from the time we were little, we would be better prepared to deal with it when
we are adults."
"So
what am I supposed to do? Spend three hours a day grooming my hair because
that's the way it's supposedly supposed to be. What about what's easy? What
about what I have time to do?"
"This
is bigger than you, don't you see?" she asked. I wasn’t sure if it was a
rhetorical question or not.
"No, sorry. What am I supposed to see?"
"That
we have to take the power. As a people we have to stop believing that we are
not good enough, that our hair is not good enough. Do you realize that black women
are the only women on the planet who systematically try to chemically or
physically change the structure of their hair?
"That's
not true."
"Think
about it. It is. As a race, we have passed on from generation to generation the
fundamental idea that our hair, the way it grows out of our head, is not good
enough. We have to do something to it."
I
tried to dispute her, but I couldn't. Sure women of other cultures occasionally
got curly perms or flat ironed their hair or colored it. But we were the only
ones who did it systematically. It was ingrained in us from infancy that our
nappy hair had to be changed.
"Also,
think about this," Marin continued. "African women are the only women
on the planet with this texture of hair. Maybe we should start celebrating our
hair as unique and special instead of treating it as a nuisance. Tell me, has
anyone asked to touch your hair since your big chop?"
Actually
several curious people, mostly white, but some black, have asked if they could
touch it to see what it felt like. Sometimes it got downright annoying.
I
nodded to Marin.
"Now,
had anyone ever asked to touch your hair when it was relaxed or when you had a
weave."
I
shook my head.
"So
what does that tell you?" she asked by way of summary.
"That
people are weird and nosey."
"Or
that your hair is special and so are you." She gave me a knowing look as
if her words had deeper meaning.
"Okay,
you don't have to turn all psychiatrist on me," I
said looking away.
"Well,
I think maybe I do. This is what we go through all the time in my hair therapy
group. For some women, their entire self-worth and self-esteem is tied up with
their hair. I think you might be one of those women."
"Are
you saying I'm never going to be able to like myself until I like my
hair?" I asked.
Marin
shrugged. "Maybe partially."
"That's
ridiculous Marin."
"Is
it? Is it ridiculous to think that when a woman looks in the mirror and doesn't
like what she sees that it might have something to do with the way she feels
about herself, the decisions she makes, or the men she chooses."
I
was getting slightly tired of the lecturing, but she did it in such a caring
and concerned way, it was hard to be angry with her. It was even harder to tell
her to stop. Especially since I was starting to think she had a point.
"It's
not about equating your hair to your self-worth. It's about being able to look
in the mirror and like what you see. When you can't do that, it causes so many
other problems in all aspects of your live. Your hair is more than your hair.
It is your self-image and identity."
"But
I used to be able to do that when I had my weave. I liked what I saw all the
time."
"Then
why did you cut it off?"
"I
cut it off because I was pissed at Vinny ."
"I
don't believe that,” she said shaking her head. “I think you cut it off because
deep down you finally wanted to be
going to get a relaxer and it will be so much easier."
"Easier?
It won't be easier. It will just be the same. It's just what you're used
to."
Marin
sat her cooler filled with milk and ginger beer on my coffee table. "Do
you know why natural hair seems so
hard? It's because we've never learned how to deal with our own hair. We've had
weaves and perms and Jheri curls all our lives. We
know how to deal with processed hair, although not very well. Maybe if we
started dealing with our own hair
from the time we were little, we would be better prepared to deal with it when
we are adults."
"So
what am I supposed to do? Spend three hours a day grooming my hair because
that's the way it's supposedly supposed to be. What about what's easy? What
about what I have time to do?"
"This
is bigger than you, don't you see?" she asked. I wasn’t sure if it was a
rhetorical question or not.
"No, sorry. What am I supposed to see?"
"That
we have to take the power. As a people we have to stop believing that we are
not good enough, that our hair is not good enough. Do you realize that black women
are the only women on the planet who systematically try to chemically or
physically change the structure of their hair?
"That's
not true."
"Think
about it. It is. As a race, we have passed on from generation to generation the
fundamental idea that our hair, the way it grows out of our head, is not good
enough. We have to do something to it."
I
tried to dispute her, but I couldn't. Sure women of other cultures occasionally
got curly perms or flat ironed their hair or colored it. But we were the only
ones who did it systematically. It was ingrained in us from infancy that our
nappy hair had to be changed.
"Also,
think about this," Marin continued. "African women are the only women
on the planet with this texture of hair. Maybe we should start celebrating our
hair as unique and special instead of treating it as a nuisance. Tell me, has
anyone asked to touch your hair since your big chop?"
Actually
several curious people, mostly white, but some black, have asked if they could
touch it to see what it felt like. Sometimes it got downright annoying.
I
nodded to Marin.
"Now,
had anyone ever asked to touch your hair when it was relaxed or when you had a
weave."
I
shook my head.
"So
what does that tell you?" she asked by way of summary.
"That
people are weird and nosey."
"Or
that your hair is special and so are you." She gave me a knowing look as
if her words had deeper meaning.
"Okay,
you don't have to turn all psychiatrist on me," I
said looking away.
"Well,
I think maybe I do. This is what we go through all the time in my hair therapy
group. For some women, their entire self-worth and self-esteem is tied up with
their hair. I think you might be one of those women."
"Are
you saying I'm never going to be able to like myself until I like my
hair?" I asked.
Marin
shrugged. "Maybe partially."
"That's
ridiculous Marin."
"Is
it? Is it ridiculous to think that when a woman looks in the mirror and doesn't
like what she sees that it might have something to do with the way she feels
about herself, the decisions she makes, or the men she chooses."
I
was getting slightly tired of the lecturing, but she did it in such a caring
and concerned way, it was hard to be angry with her. It was even harder to tell
her to stop. Especially since I was starting to think she had a point.
"It's
not about equating your hair to your self-worth. It's about being able to look
in the mirror and like what you see. When you can't do that, it causes so many
other problems in all aspects of your live. Your hair is more than your hair.
It is your self-image and identity."
"But
I used to be able to do that when I had my weave. I liked what I saw all the
time."
"Then
why did you cut it off?"
"I
cut it off because I was pissed at Vinny ."
"I
don't believe that,” she said shaking her head. “I think you cut it off because
deep down you finally wanted to be
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