Today was pretty chill. I didn’t have class, so I spent some time doing my hair. I twisted my hair into Bantu knots, and the reactions on campus were pretty hilarious. Some people were awed and thought it was cool (”Can I touch it?”) while others seemed confused or uncomfortable, occasionally to the point where they didn’t even recognize me! I was pretty hesitant about going out with my hair dressed this way at first, especially since I hadn’t bothered to really make an attempt at any real neatness or symmetry with the style because I’m aiming for the waviness that occurs once they’re taken out, but then I realized I had no reason to be.
After taking some time absorbing the varying reactions on campus, I realized that my initial insecurity is an indication of the obscured self hatred that is so fused to my identity as an African American. I am fortunate to have parents who’ve taught me to have some sense of pride about my own natural beauty, an entity to be embraced independently of my race and color, but the media, being the powerful force that it is, seldom fails to get under a youth’s skin. I too have fallen victim to its brainwashing prowess, but in observing my sister’s recent behavior, I recognize that they have seeped deeper into her consciousness than my own.
Whereas many other Black mothers in our community had thrown up their hands and permed their children’s hair at early ages, our mother painstakingly maintained our thick, often unruly hair in its natural form from day one. It grew to be quite long, in fact my sister’s was always just slightly longer than mine. Our parents have always encouraged us to make our own decisions, so naturally, once we began high school, we started to experiment with our hair on our own. As I had gone away to school, I struggled with my hair a lot and it did suffer quite a bit of damage, but I kept with it and embraced the styles that best maintained its health.
Yet all it took was a year or so for my sister to destroy all of our mother’s hard work, dedication, and love. She began applying heat excessively and skipping meals, and over time, it began to fall out. What was worse was that she decided to entrust what was left of it to a friend when she finally thought to get a perm. Our mother was furious, and not so much about the fact that my sister wanted the perm in the first place, but because of the backhanded manner in which she had acquired it and the fact that years of effort were so adamantly unappreciated. Right down to her hair, my sister wanted too desperately to be someone else.
I definitely understand her struggle though. Society tells us that our natural hair, on top of our skin and other genetic features, is not beautiful. It’s not just White culture that feeds us this information either. Much of the media, be it music videos or magazines, tells us that if we hope to have any chance to be accepted as beautiful, we need not apply as we are. Yet through it all, none of the changes we make amount to much; we are still somehow inherently less attractive. I like to think that as time goes on, society and the media are improving in terms of their interpretations of beauty, but the damage often feels irreparable.
Of course I recognize that Black women are not the only ones who are at times self conscious about their hair and ultimately, their perception of their own beauty. I think if this battle is going to end for any of us, we’re going to have to make a shift towards a world unbound by superficiality. Though I prefer to be an optimist, I don’t really see that happening anytime soon. Even if the whole world should fall blind, I feel we would still discover ways to cage each other with as shallow a thing as appearance. I guess some part of our superficiality is instinctual, but I feel we harm each other by it far more than necessary.
Some days I feel the hair atop my head is like a crown of thorns. I wince when people reach to touch it, at times afraid that its texture and appearance may mean social exile. But on a good day I remember that it doesn’t really matter. I remember that as long as I am hygienic and neat about it, it has little bearing on my character. A crown is such, whether it is made of flesh or gold. Beauty is like a rose bush, stemming from within and blossoming outward, thorns and all. Ultimately its roots and the nutrients of the earth, its nurturer, will determine the sum of its beauty. Similarly, as tired as it sounds, true beauty comes from within.