There is nothing more freeing, any black woman would tell you, than removing one thing at the end of a long day –
your wig.
My scalp tingles anytime I remove my lace wig, and it seems to say, "thank God, finally!"
But why?
After all, wigs gave it a socially accepted form of beauty that it could not naturally achieve. So where did this concept originate, and how did I buy into this? One may think it correlates with pop culture-that, what is socially in dictates how we style our hair. However, the truth is there is a painful history behind our hairstory.
Children first teased me about my hair in the third grade. It was a shade of reddish/brown that highlighted its length, dryness, and texture. My mother had no hair care skills, and at the same time, her frugalness prevented her from paying someone else to do the job. So, my hair went split ended and was severely damaged. The taunts to me, however, were a message that what was growing from my scalp was not enough. It was not-
pretty enough
long enough
healthy enough,
or good enough.
It was not worthy of being hair. Yet, that seed sank deep into my heart, the tree grew, and as an adult woman, I bear its fruit.
For some time, the black woman's scalp has been one of the most assaulted parts of the human body. It has been exposed to harsh chemicals, extreme heat, and tensions, hoping for social, political, and cultural acceptance. However, these acts are minor compared to where it all began.
Before colonialists plundered and exploited Africa, it was a continent of rich culture and tribal diversity.
Hair communicated. Its styling and adornment spoke of tribal belonging, royalty, wealth, marital status, fertility, childbearing, times of war, shame, loss and death. Even today, people of colour say," be careful who you allow to touch your hair." It was a direct connection to the spiritual realm. To the pre-captured African, hair spoke of
an identity that was
powerful
strong and proud.
In the article "A History of Black Hair Braiding and Why Our Hair Will Never Be a Pop Culture Trend," Gina Conteh writes that Slavers knew this. So, once they captured the Africans, shaving their heads was the first thing they did. This egregious act stripped every captive of their identity. In African heritage, the shaving of heads meant death-
Of Kings
of Tribes
of cultures
of histories forever erased.
I imagine my possible great ancestor of royalty, a woman with thick reddish-brown ropes of hair twisted and adorned with ribbons of colour. Her locs, now waist length were grown from birth. The sun-kissed her toned, bronze skin as she walked the ivory coast. Her subjects, who spent the day fishing, would run to her, giving her gifts of pearls they had discovered. She would put each one in her hair to celebrate their love. She danced in delight, and her hair wrapped her like streamers in a parade.
She stands near ships destined for the New World in shackles, disrobed of the glory she once knew. Razors take to her scalp, clearing her head of each loc like a beautiful rainforest plundered and stripped bare for profit. Tears from her eyes and blood from her scalp roll down her face. The metallic taste of iron from her blood that once represented strength meant nothing now. The salt in her tears would be the only reminder of the beachy shores she once danced on. The one who was almost Queen is now unidentifiable, and those who will one day be born of her will-
never know
their royal lineage.
This initial act laid the foundation for a system that perpetually stripped the African diaspora of their identity. It was a branding that said, "you are no longer you, and anything that reveals who you are is not permitted to return." Moreover, Victoria Sherwood explains in "An Encyclopedia of Hair" that the trauma and malnourishment left it unhealthy once it began to regrow.
European enslavers referred to Africans as "nappy-headed." Anything ethnic to the enslaved was determined inferior. Children fathered by enslavers had softer, less coiled hair, lighter skin and straighter noses. These mulattos received better treatment because they were considered more beautiful. The discrimination against kinky hair perpetuates in the diaspora. I once heard someone say the power of Colonialism is that it does not need a white person to enforce it once the ideas are embedded. It was my own who communicated to me what was
growing from
my scalp was
not enough.
In fifth grade, I got a perm. First, my hair had an ammonia bath. They were then rolled in stiff curlers and covered with a plastic cap. The result was hair with a soft Brazilian curl texture covered in oil.
My silent prayers were answered in 7th grade when my dad began dating a beautician. I figured God saw my struggle. My damaged tresses received real attention as his girlfriend slathered relaxer onto my virgin hair.
I shifted restlessly in the salon chair after its application. I was not told not to scratch my scalp before the relaxing process, so it burned because its main ingredient is sodium hydroxide, also known as lye. This harsh chemical can disintegrate a tin can in four hours. Nevertheless, it was manufactured and approved for use by women of colour. To us, the resulting straight hair was worth the sacrifice. I was like Jesus bearing the cross that day for the joy set before me.
I was suddenly aware that my secondary sexual characteristics were conspicuous due to my new hairdo. Attention from the opposite sex increased, and I revelled in it. I continued to straighten my hair into adulthood. As soon as new growth appeared, it was time to apply a relaxer.
No one ever saw the organic Sam. I was in shackles.
My hair was always chemically altered, with someone else's hair attached or covering mine. One day, my Pastor's wife thought a wig I was wearing was my hair. She said, "finally, I get to see you!" That statement awakened something in me that told me
it was time
to emerge.
Eventually, seeking a healthier lifestyle void of chemicals challenged me to break my addiction to creamy crack. So, I stopped its usage and allowed my natural tresses to grow as my DNA dictated. Breaking free of social shackles, I walked into work wearing my Afro-
introducing me.
Yet, the comments I received had subtext.
"You should relax that."
"Natural hair is difficult and expensive to maintain."
"It's not professional."
The critiques showed an implicit bias rooted in colonialist dispositions. The euro centralization of my people has resulted in us rejecting who we authentically are.
The Civil Rights movements in the 1960s awakened pride in Afro-ethnic communities. Activist groups such as the Black Panther wore Afros to recapture lost heritage to empower. But the social and political embedments in the black subconscious are far from displaced. Images in pop culture and media never displayed beauties with kinky hair. Instead, black women wore European styles and lightened their skins. Employers made policies that rejected any ethnic display. Even the US Army prohibited African hairstyles such as braids and locs because
it was perceived
as unkempt.
In his docu-commentary film "Colin in Black in White," Colin Kaepernick discussed the stigmatization of black athletes because of their hairstyles. The film dramatized his experience of being called a thug, even by his white adoptive parents, because he wore corn rows. So, the now-former NFL quarterback turned civil rights activist rocks his halo-like Afro; with it, he exudes an untouchable sense of self.
Like Colin, a new era of naturalistas in the Afro-Centric hair care communities is awakening and reforming the European societal constructs of what is deemed pleasing. Although it is a move in the right direction, we still have great lengths to go. The weeds of Colonialism are hard ones to uproot, and microaggressions may always exist. Yet, I believe we are forging ahead and burgeonings growth.
Ethnic representation in pop culture, politics, and multi industries is dramatically increasing. The African diaspora and those who see the beauty of diversity are lobbying for change. For example, some places have made it illegal to discriminate against ethnic hairstyles. The world is beginning to see them for what they are-
Unique.
Timeless.
Beautiful.
Now and again, I still wear wigs. Yet, it has nothing to do with being socially acceptable. Consciously, I choose ones that represent my African heritage. Black women, unlike any other, can be diverse by wearing styles ethnic to any culture. Nevertheless, my sisters, I hope we examine the psychology behind our choices and society's suggestions.
I am enough!
I love myself and every kink and coil that reveals what God has written on my DNA.
For that princess, whose hair was the same colour as mine, I dance on the shores of freedom in honour of you. I dare not cover what was stripped from you anymore to look like those who stole your personhood, potential, and joy. So rest on, and I will be the Queen you did not get the chance to become.
I WILL wear our CROWN!