'The Help' highlights a familiar hair battle

At the recommendation of a friend, I picked up a book that a white lady wrote about black maids. I had reservations about reading it -- I tend to havea bias against white writers using black characters -- but I enjoyed the book. The book is set in the 1960s, so there's lots of talk about the civil rights movment, the power struggle between blacks and whites, black domestics battling against their white employers, etc etc etc. All that is fine and good, but the thing that struck me was The Hair.




One of the main characters is a woman named Skeeter and she often battles her mother over her clothes and hairstyles. Apparently, her hair is too frizzy for her mother's tastes, so she always sends her to the salon or fusses at her when it's not done right. At one point, Skeeter goes through some kind of excessive hair regimen -- It was foreign to me, so I can't offer details -- that temporarily gives her the hair her mother desires. Sounded a bit like a relaxer for white people. But here is how Skeeter sums up her looks:



My own mother is looking at me as if I completely baffle her mind with my looks, my height, my hair. To say I have frizzy hair is an understatement. It is kinky, more pubic than cranial, and whitish blond, breaking off easily, like hay. (Pg. 65-66)



Her hair struggle is one that speaks volumes to me. I've been natural for about five years, so that has meant that I also baffle my mother with my looks -- this thick head of kinky hair in particular. I often get compliments on my locks, twists, 'fro, etc, but Mom has never been on the natural hair team. She hasn't been as vocal as Skeeter's mother, yet she has made it clear that she would like me to have a relaxer. It's become a bit of a joke in the family. I'll ask if I can borrow something, she'll joke that I can, only if I have a relaxer. She nearly had a heart attack the few times she saw my 'fro. Of course, she had nothing to say when I pointed out that I look eerily similar to her high school graduation picture, the one where she could barely fit her cap over her huge 'fro.



We laugh about it, and I'm still hoping Mom will come around. (I've given up on some other members of my family) I found this online and I know I'm not alone in the mother-daughter hair conflict. Maybe we can all start a support group, and invite Skeeter.


Photo from http://t3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcTDvLzuUkdhPGbS4Jd67FS0Bsm9hqpg9DMcdo_FDhP1oljJqOIf

Nappy Bill of Rights

About a month ago, I decided to go natural. This is something I've considered every six to eight weeks come relaxer time, but I would eventually give in and go to the nearest hairdresser. This time, I'm going to do it. I'm letting my relaxer grow out and I plan to lock my hair. My mane will go through some serious changes in the next several months and I imagine those of the paler race will have several questions. I've devised what I call a 'Nappy Bill of Rights', which should give these folks a better understanding of acceptable an unacceptable behavior toward a black woman going through this stage.

1. No, you can't touch it. My hair is not something you see at a museum or pet store, therefore, keep your hands to yourself. I reserve the right to bite off the finger of anyone whose hand comes near my hair.

2. Do not refer to me as 'exotic.' I hate that word. It's just a polite way of saying 'colored' or even worse, calling me a n****. Don't do it.

3. Yes, I wash it. There are these things called shampoo and conditioner that do wonders for my hair. In other words, ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.

4. How did I get my hair like this? Let's see .... I stopped paying people to burn my scalp with chemicals every six weeks in order to be accepted by society. Now I stopped caring about what people think.

5. In the words of India.Arie, "I Am not My Hair." I'm the same brilliant and beautiful person I was, just sans relaxer. I expect to be treated the same. Look me in the eyes when we're talking, instead of staring at my roots. If you can follow these rules, we'll get along perfectly.
(Photo courtesy of http://www.dreadlocks.com.au/)

Bloggers' Block

It's Memorial Day and I'm sitting here in a T-shirt and sweatpants, halfway watching Young & the Restless. It occurred to me earlier that I haven't blogged in awhile, so I clicked my laptop on. Now I realize that I have absolutely nothing to say.

There hasn't been much going on in my life that's worth talking about. There's the ongoing issue with LeftBehind, but that's an ongoing saga. Oh, I'm one step closer to locking my hair. I went to my hairdresser Saturday and cut most of the remaining relaxer out of my hair ( I haven't had a new relaxer since January) and added micro-braids. It's weird that in order to go natural I have to attach someone else's hair into my scalp as part of the process. Actually, I didn't need to get the braids, but my real hiar shorter than I'd ever seen it before. It barely reaches my ears, if I can remember correctly. So I'll keep these braids in for about a month and then go to locking ... if I'm ready. Mom hasn't taken my switch to natural hair too well, but I'll elaborate on that issue in a later post. (The way my brain's been going lately, it's best to stockpile ideas)

I finished writing a short story yesterday, which is a good thing. It only took me about three days to do this one and I'm fairly happy with it. I've been following the advice of writer Steven Barnes who suggests that anyone trying to write a novel start by writing short stories -- a story a week. Once the stories are written, you have to mail them out to magazines/journals and keep them in the mail until they get published. I've written quite a few stories in this way, but no dice on the publishing. One of the problems I'm running into is that alot of publications don't accept submissions during the summer months. Alot of reading periods have closed in May, leaving me with all these stories and nothing to do but file them away until the winter. I could start writing the novel, but that would be what a logical, thinking person would do. And I don't like to do things that make sense.

Today I'm feeling extremely lazy. It'll take a miracle for me to put on real clothes and leave the house. I have washed and put on clean clothes, but I'm still wearing my glasses and I haven't made my bed yet. I don't have many groceries, so I suppose I'll have to leave eventually if I want to eat something more than Rice Krispies. Ah well. Decisions, decisions.

For Dreadlocked Girls Who Have Considered Scissors & Relaxers When The Hairdresser Has Had Enough

My world stopped last week when my hairdresser called. She was having an emergency and wouldn't be able to do my hair that evening. The situation was so dire, that she didn't know when she would be able to do my hair again. So I did what I could do, I comforted Hairdresser, offered words of support, then I hung up the phone and ....

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!SCREAMED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

You see, Hairdresser is a close family friend. Ok, ok, she's family. There was a time when she had her own shop and I was comforted by the nice, easy banter among us women. Sure, I was often abused ('How long are you gonna make me stay here tonight & deal with your wool, Strength?'), interrogated ('Do you have a goal for this hair? Your locs are already down your back!') and teased ('Is this a gray hair or is this your cat? Oh, it's a gray hair!'). My favorite part of the shop was the way said Hairdresser would greet me, with a hand on her hip and a firm "What do you want?"

But all good things must come to an end, I guess. Economics forced Hairdresser to close up shop and start working at The Hair Shop and Salon. Things are different there. For example, someone answers the phone with a robotic "Thank you for calling the Hair Shop and Salon, where we experience beauty and wellness. What are your wellness needs today?"Each time someone washes your hair they say something like "It was my pleasure to service you." Have I mentioned how much they charge? I mean, I expected to pay a pretty penny for this thick head of hair. But they charge extra for EVERYTHING. An extra $10 just to cut the strands off the locs? Seriously?

So when The Hairdresser couldn't do my hair, that left me with few options. I could either go to The Hair Shop or do it myself. (Or obey my mother and get a relaxer) Clearly, I chose the latter. I've washed and styled my own hair before, but I try to avoid doing it because it's such a time consuming process. Thankfully, I did a lot of googling and youtube research to find the best way to get through this head.

Things actually went well, especially since I'm madly in love with my shampoo. I washed, I twisted, I oiled, I blowdryed, I cornrowed. Boy, it took some time! But I managed to get this head in one big ole braid and got nothing but compliments the next day. Hooray!

But I truly need my Hairdresser to return to locking form, with a quickness.


Photo from http://www.naani.com/contents/media/6fd42c7c0.jpg

Life on the Blue Screen Pt. II

Dear Netflix administrators,
Perhaps you all misinterpreted my intentions in my last letter. I was only offering a suggestion as a customer, not criticizing your DVD service. But apparently, I've angered you people. You've gone through some guerilla tactics to make sure I don't get my movies and I won't stand for it anymore.

Let's start with The Princess Diaries, shall we? That movie was supposedly mailed to me on a Monday, but it didn't get to me until Friday. In the meantime, you were able to send me The Princess Diaries Pt. 2. How, pray tell, am I supposed to watch the sequel when I haven't seen the original?! So I have to hold onto the sequel until I get the original, thus screwing up my weekly movie schedule.

It doesn't end there. Apparently your shipment facility has some sort of bias against me and/or The Princess Diaries. According to your records, it took SEVEN whole days for the Post Office to deliver the DVD to you? I had to report the movie as lost so you guys would hurry up and send me another movie.

But my latest problem is with "The King of Queens." Because I don't have cable, my TV fades to blue at the most critical times when I'm trying to watch this show. So I figure that instead of putting myself through this nonsense, I should go ahead and order the episodes from Netflix. Big mistake. In the middle of episode three on disc 1 (the "Cello, Goodbye" episode, where Doug thinks Carrie's boss is hitting on her) the DVD decides to go back to the very beginning of the episode, giving me a dizzying case of deja vu. I sent the movie back as damaged and I await the replacement copy.

For obvious reasons, I'm beginning to detect a bias on your part. Do no tempt me to take my monthly $18 service fee somewhere else. That's right, I've had other offers ... I may even go to the big C. Mom told me she'd be willing to pay my cable bill for a year, but I'd have to get a relaxer and change my hair back the other way. Don't make me do it!

Yours in movie love,
s/c/w

I Am Not My Hair

I never thought I’d say this, but I’m feeling grateful for dirty old men right about now.

Let me back up. I should first say, I apologize for being gone so long. I went on vacation and I couldn’t bear to get on my computer, even if it was to blog. Now that my hiatus is over it’s time to spill the beans on what I’ve been up to. Ready? Here goes …




I CUT MY HAIR



And I mean, SHORT. For those of you who have been following along, I decided to lock my hair in January. I’ve been getting my hair cut and gradually growing the relaxer out. Most recently I was sporting micro braids, which gave my hair a curly appearance. I planned to keep the braids until my hair grew to a reasonable length for locking. But braiding takes all day, so this week I went to my hairdresser (who is also my aunt) and told her to cut off the chemically treated hair that remained and do something with my natural hair. She did and tied my remaining hair up into tiny, gel twists shown here.


I like my new ‘do, but I’ve been feeling a bit insecure because I’ve never had short hair before. And what do I do when I’m feeling insecure? I go see Mom, who has not been supportive of my natural hair journey. Here are some of the comments I got:

“Wow. I mean … wow.”
“Well, do you like it?”
“Wear bright lipstick so people won’t think you’re a boy.”
“Come back when your hair is straight.”
“Yep, you’re really African.”

That’s Moms for you. It’s a good thing I have a sense humor. So far, I’m getting the reaction that I expected from everybody. My mom and stepdad hate it, a few of my friends and my hairdresser say they love it.

While I was on vacation, I was able to see LeftBehind. I learned that he, like most brothas, has a hair issue. He doesn’t know about my natural plans and told me how much he loved the braids. His exact words were, “I’m a big fan of curly hair.” Then I met his mother later, who now has short hair. She says LB was mad at her because she cut her hair. Sigh. If he only knew what was going on with my head.

So I was wondering what kind of reaction I would get from the fellas the first day I went outside practically sporting my scalp. I did a little walk/run around my apartment complex. Now that I have less hair, I wear lipstick and earrings when I work out so I’m not confused for a boy. (Hey, there may be something to Mom’s advice!) I’m running down the street when I see an older man across the street staring at me. I’m wondering if he has me confused with somebody else, because I just know he can’t have lust in his eyes as he stares at lil’ old baldheaded me. But our eyes meet and he looks me up and down and smiles. That was a serious ego boost. It took everything in me not to run across the street and hug him. Sigh. You gotta love the dirty old men. You can be baldheaded, sweaty and downright funky but they’ll still think you’re a queen.

The true test of the hair will come tomorrow, when I’m sure it will scare the White People at work. Like LeftBehind, they liked my hair in the micro braids. Actually, their knowledge of Black Hair is so limited that they’re amazed even when I do simple things, like part my hair on a different side.

It’ll take some adjustment for everyone, me included, to get used to my new ‘do. But it’ll grow faster this way and then I’ll move onto the next phase of my journey, which is the actual locking process. Until then, I won’t leave the house without wearing a dress, earrings or lipstick. Then I’ll stand in my full-length mirror for forever, reciting the chorus to India.Arie’s “I Am Not My Hair.” Yet I know that if I find out that I’m going to see LeftBehind again, I might have to run and get a hot comb or something. I’m not that strong … yet.

(Photo courtesy of http://www.eftal.com/ezimagecatalogue/catalogue/variations/31-400x500.jpg)

Thursdays with Mom

Mom and I have started this thng where we spend one night a week, usually Thursdays, eating out together. It's sparked some interesting comments on her part.
(While dining at Mongolian BBQ)
Mom: Whoa, there's a bunch of Asian guys standing outside. Just hanging around.
Me: Yeah. I noticed our whole area is getting a larger Asian population.
Mom: Interesting. I wonder if this restaurant would give them a discount.

(Over burgers at Ruby Tuesday's)
Mom: You remember your cousin Kelly's grandmother?
Me: No.
Mom: Sure you do. She was real thin and gay. I'm talking gaaaaaaay. She was gay back before there even was gay.
Me: No, I don't remember her. Why do you ask?
Mom: Oh. Well, she died.

(At Applebee's)
Mom: Please get a relaxer! I'm tired of you doing this natural thing.
Me: I want locks. This is the only way to do it.
Mom: Fine. I guess I'll be the only white girl in the family.
Me: I guess so.
Mom (as she tosses her hair): So are you happy? Are you happy and nappy?

(Over the phone)
Mom: I'm sorry I gave you a ghetto name.
Me: What?
Mom: I was listening to this radio program and --
Me: Mom! Stop listening to Michael Baisden!
Mom: They were saying that employers see certain names on a resume and eliminate the ones with ghetto names. Your name is at the top of the list.
Me: My name isn't ghetto. It's certain people who make the name ghetto --
Mom: But still. From now on, you should go by your middle name.

(At her house)
Me: Be happy with the step grandchild you have now. That'll probably be the only grandchild you'll ever have.
Mom: Oh, you'll give me a grandchild. Husband or not, but I'm sure you'll give me a grandbaby.