My mom had long and thick hair that fell past her shoulders. People often asked if she was of North African descent as though long and thick hair was not something that women in the SADEC region could ever claim. I remember pictures of her in her late twenties with the loveliest and thickest of fro's. In her thirties she spotted a straightened version of that same long thick hair that now blew in the wind, bounced as she walked and moved as she laughed. My mothers hair was enviable.
I had "good hair" too back then. My mom opting that we rather get our hair straightened with a hot comb and not chemically treated. My hair was long, natural yet "manageable". My mother had a clothing store, a boutique if you will, eNew Brighton eBhayi. We were quite a sight, my sister and I in our matching pin striped Carducci suits, our long natural and manageable hair standing alongside our mother with the long thick hair that blew in the wind, bounced when she walked and moved as she laughed. To have good hair was to be treated differently. It was to be special.
A womans hair is her crowning glory.
1 Corinthians 11:14-15
Good hair was revered with religious fervour. Relaxed hair was washed once a week. Treated every two weeks and styled every other week and for special occasions. Every 2 to 3 months it was relaxed again. It was pricey and somehow become a class issue as you could quickly tell or assumed what tier other girls were based on how their hair looked and was maintained.
My hair suffered because of this regime with it thinning out at the back, forcing me to go short just before I turned 11. Short wasn't popular back then. I did however notice that I found myself less attractive in my "German cut" but to my comfort also felt less sexualised. The boyish cut also had me choosing masculine and boyish trends of the time.
When puberty struck around 12 and as I hoped a certain boy from Kingswood College would look my way I remember begging my mother to let me get the then famed "Boom Shaka" braids. She insisted that the hair style was not appropriate for someone my age. Like many she could't divorce the hairstyle from the gyrating duo. Its like the hair had a life or personality of its own, too sexual for a kid my age.
In my teens I was introduced to black consciousness and immediately became a natural hair snob. Judging all black women who didn't embrace their own coils. For years I alternated between dreads, a fro, twists and braids yet nothing looked quite as good as my mothers straightened hair.
At that point, my hair sang, "I'm black and I'm proud" but my envy revealed that I hadn't successfully escaped decades of racial subjugation and bad psychology.
In my twenties I got my first weave. After years of envy I bought what I couldn't grow and I abandoned the head wrap, maxi skirt and beads. My hair governed my sense of style and spaces I occupied. And it was in a room filled with strangers that I realised the power my hair had over me.
Once, in my twenties, I was in an emotionally impossible position and in a stroke of defiance I went bald and found myself agreeing for the very first time to India Arie's "I am not my hair" but that was only because I had no hair to be like.
Now, in my 30's I prefer to have braids and you'll catch me spotting the occasional weave but I am way too conscious and suspicious of long luxurious weaves. Not on others, just on myself. The obvious ridiculousness is the fact that there is nothing natural about braids at all yet they register as more real and natural because they're not seen as an attempt to be someone else rather different and decorative. Sometimes I think, "well, this is just me and that isn't." But I suspect it isn't that simple. I'm from a certain time and consciousness and there my hair says something. It informs my style and overall aesthetic.
So think and sing what you may because I am most certainly my hair.
So think and sing what you may because I am most certainly my hair.
Feast.
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