My Hair & Days Gone By

Copyright 2006 by NetNia Publishing - All Rights Reserved -- Contact Info
excerpt from " Don't Worry, Be Nappy "

"The great hair obsession is driven by the painful need of many African Americans to conform to the dominant values of American society. And beauty, fashion and hairstyles are the most popular and perverse expressions of those values. Barskile and Sherman learned the bitter truth that many African-Americans still believe the fiction that good hair makes you, and nappy hair doesn't."
Dr. Earl Ofari Hutchinson

Fried and Scared Straight

Today, my dreadlocks play an extremely important role in my life.  They are my declaration to define myself and success as I see fit.  As long as I can remember, my hair has never been something I felt the need to worry about.  As with most young Black children, my hair was "abuse" by the women in my family.  As I cried, they fried, dyed, and tortured my hair.  Just a simple country boy, all I wanted to do was race the wind, swim with fishes, and play football with my friends.

Let me refresh your memories of those of hot summer Saturdays in the beauty chair from hell.  My mother or sister would call me in for my un-scheduled hair appointment.  Their special salon was a stove burner on high, a vinyl chair, and the notorious hot comb.

Back in the day, the hot comb was a common household item in our neighborhood.  Resembling a comb, it was made of cast iron with a wooden handle.  Kinky coarse hair became manageable by greasing and combing it straight with a heated hot comb.

So there I sat next to the stove; twelve years old, wide eyed, and scared as hell. On the counter within arms reach was a can of Royal Crown hair grease, wet towel (for cooling purposes), pink comb, and, of course, the radio tuned to our favorite station. All the preparations were there to attack my innocent nappy hair and make me "cute."

Out the corner of my eye I could see the smoke rising from the hot comb on the stove's fire red burner.  "Be still boy, hold your ears, and don't move," said my sister grabbing the comb off the burner.  I felt intense heat on my cheeks at it passed by in route to my nappy hair.

"Please get past the ear, don't burn my ear," I prayed silently. My brain would sense danger and proceed to move me out the path of the hot object.  Using her "big sister" strength, my sister would snatch me back to a straight up position. 

Grabbing a section of hair with one hand and the hot iron in the other, she began combing at the root close to the scalp.  I would hear an awful sound, "KA-CEESE", of grease melting with every stroke.  My once spongy happy nappy hair would fall straight and lifeless to the side of my head.

With each appointment, the corners of my ears, fingers, and back of my neck became burnt victims.  When I screamed, "Ouch! Girl, you are burning me!" she responded, "If you sit still and don't move, you won't get burned!"

The hot comb is still around today.  Most are now gold-plated with up to fifteen heat settings for straightening even the coarsest hair.  The results are still the same: burns the neck and scares the hell out of little children.   

Mama Don't Play That!

Other than being in the beauty chair from hell, my hair received little, if any, attention during my adolescent years.  My mother, however, always demanded combed hair for Sunday morning church services. 

After I put on my Sunday's best, the battle began; my nappy hair versus mother's pink comb. It felt like mother was pulling the brains right out of my head with each hook and pull of hair. 

"Be still boy," or "Put your hands down," and "Don't let me whip you with this comb," she would say, as we fought for control of my head. Eventually my hair got combed after a few screams and slaps upside my head.

With five very active children to care for, my nappy head was the last thing my mother wanted to deal with.  She always tried to keep it cut, even if she had to do it herself. Though sharing those special hair-cutting moments were fun, the bottom line was she messed my hair up!

My mother had invented a boy's hairstyle only she appreciated. Even with clipper guides, she still managed to get one side shorter or leave a bald spot on the back.  After a while, she grew tired of my complaints and eventually stopped dealing with it.  For special occasions (wedding, funeral, social event, etc), we went to the local barbershop or have a friend cut it.  

Who The Hell Is Jheri?

Why was everyone so concerned about my nappy hair?  Was it television shows of perfect white people with long straight hair (Hint: the Brady Bunch)? Or pictures on hair-kit boxes of Black people with curly wavy hair telling us, "You too could be happy with un-nappy hair."  Whatever the reason, my sister tried every new product, gadget, or process to fix my hair.

Do you remember when the hair product Jheri's Curls started appearing on the store shelves?  It could change hair texture from coarse to straight or curly without the use of the hot comb.  It required reapplication daily or weekly to keep the processed hair from eventually going back to its natural texture.

Inside the box of Jheri's Curl was a big jar of orange horrible-smelling grease and a pair of yellow latex gloves to protect the hands.  Now, let's just think for a moment, if the gooey mass of grease was too dangerous for rough hands -- how safe was it for the soft skin on my scalp?  From many past head injuries, I knew scalp skin was not hand skin strong.

Once the orange grease was applied to the whole head of hair, timing was critical.  The effects it had on skin, including the scalp, were quite harmful.  It would actually burn the skin or leave sores if left on too long. 

The instructions did not give a good time limit to rinse.  Your only indicator was a warm, itchy, burning sensation on your scalp and skin. You screamed, "Take it out now!"  It was such a waste of money, time, and unnecessary pains to force hair into a weird unnatural state. 

Braids Save The Day

With a little running and sweat, Jheri's Curls or fried straight hair would snap back to its natural nappy state. It would drive my sister crazy when I stepped into to the house in dire need of a "touch up." Finally fed up with my non-caring attitude towards my hair, the women started braiding my hair.  Braids proved to be the key to managing my hair. 

Boys with braids were common in our community. The men, however, wore Afro's.  On cloudless summer days, boys and girls sat under shade trees or on porches braiding each other's hair.  This was good times for getting closer, teasing, and gossiping about everyone in the neighborhood. 

Braided hair made life simple. I could play, camp, hunt, pick apples, or make money mowing yards without worrying about messing up my hair. It was low maintenance requiring washing and re-braiding only once a week. In addition, you could always change styles from a simple plait to elegant cornrows. 

School Hair Daze

Every morning during elementary school, I dressed, ran a brush over my hair, ate breakfast, and went off to my favorite place.  I loved everything about school but hated dealing with my hair.  If only my mother knew about maintenance free dreadlocks.  Life would have been so simple.

In high school, I stopped wearing braids and stayed away from the beauty chair from hell.  Girls became more important than chasing for torture, I now wanted them for friends and companions.  I tried to look my best at all times and wore a low Afro through high school.

For some odd reason, my hair had a different texture on each side. The left side was easy to comb and maintained position.  The right side, however, was coarser requiring more grease and extra strokes of combing.  With careful planning, dedication, and hard work I hid my hair's split personality.

After graduating from high school and moving to Texas, I cut off all my hair.  Again, more important things in life, such as survival, took priority over dealing with split-personality hair.  By the thousands of shaven bald men in the world, it is the perfect "no-hair" style.   

Deep Rooted In The Past

Looking back I realize braids, combined with our family's lifestyle, set the stage for dreadlocks as an adult.  My father, a part-time minister, did not allow secular music or much television watching.  He was so adamant about his religious beliefs, relatives seldom visited for fear of arguments.  We did not visit many others outside the church congregation. 

Our home environment forced us to create our own unique worlds. We defined ourselves based on our life experiences.  It did not matter how others lived or what they thought of us.  Our appearance, ideas, and actions did not need or require a stamp of approval from society. Most important, we did not compare ourselves to other races or cultures to determine our worth.

As an adult, other's opinions simply do not matter.  I am a firm believer in the mind-over-matter concept, which simply means, if someone is not contributing to my goals or success, I don't "mind" because "they" don't matter.  Bill Cosby once said he may not know what the secret of success is, but caring what others think is definitely the key to failure.