Growing up, my mother never let my hair grow out. I’d run around, bald scalp glistening from all the hair grease, never really understanding why I just couldn’t let my hair streak down in glorified rows like Allen Iverson’s. For whatever reason, my mom fancied sitting me down in a chair, setting the clippers on the lowest blade and hacking away at my poor little baby curls until I looked like the shiniest Milk Dud in the box.
Nothing was worse than hearing that loud “TYREEEEEEEE, COME HERE!!!” with the faint buzzing of hair clippers in the background.
Thus, I resented baldness. Spending nearly all of my early life with a naked scalp grew tiresome. I wanted to let my hair grow free! I wanted to spend endless time shaping, shifting and altering my hair! Hell, I even wanted to have bad hair days where people would look at me like I was crazy. But all of that was stripped from me, at the hands of a clipper-wielding mother with a fixation on shiny craniums.
My sophomore year in high school, however, my streak of baldness ended when I grew my hair out for the first time.
“Take that, Mom,” I thought to myself.
My hair grew for about five months, which meant it was long enough to be braided for the first time.
I jumped on the first opportunity I saw — a lady who said she would twist my hair into Iverson-esque designs for the low price of $10. I met her on a Sunday night at her place and hopped into her kitchen chair in front of a 16-inch TV.
The act of human torture that followed was one of the worst pains I have ever felt.
Her fingers were small machetes — carving and knotting inexplicable designs into my head; I felt the tightness of the braids literally pull my forehead and eyelids up.
It didn’t help that her kids kept interrupting her, making the slow deterioration of my skull an even slower process.
Two hours and 15 restrained tear drops later, the masterpiece was complete — and let me tell you, beauty always seems to be worth the pain. Lush little braided circles lathered in Blue Magic danced upon my head in all directions, and I was convinced of their perfection until I went to bed that night and couldn’t sleep. The pain was completely unmanageable. I only had those braids in for about 24 hours, and I was so scared to get them done again that I immediately scheduled an appointment to return back to the baldness.
The low-fade was back, but I still resented it just the same.
It wasn’t until the beginning of my senior year that I decided to let my hair grow again. But this time it was different. I had motivations beyond a loathing of baldness.
I began to think about the images of professional black men in the media. They are always short-haired. Hairstyles such as braids, dreads and even afros, are associated with being gangsta, ignorant, thug or “hood.” I grew tired of these norms. I shouldn’t have to keep my hair low just to not look “hood.” I should have the right to do what I want with my hair and still be able to maintain a high level of professionalism without sacrificing my soul to the gods of baldness.
If an employer doesn’t hire me because of the unprofessionalism of my hair, then I wouldn’t want to work for them anyway.
So, with this newfound rebellion on two fronts (against my mom’s tyrannical rule of my scalp and antiquated social norms) I decided I will never cut my hair again. I love this huge black cotton wad on my head; though it can be virtually unmanageable at times, the fact that I have tied so much symbolic value to it makes it almost priceless to me.
But beyond symbolism, the afro, I’ve learned, is quite practical: I no longer have to suffer from a cold noggin in the winter — my ‘fro serves as a windbreaker.
Rain is no longer an issue. Umbrellas? Hoods? Please! All I need is a well-picked afro to catch the drops of rain and encase them in its shell.
I no longer need a pillow — my thick afro offers plenty of comfort and support.
I love my hair, and it takes me a long time to get it looking decent. For some reason though, people think they can just run around and touch it at will.
You don’t run up to a woman with well-straightened hair and bash away at it, and you don’t go to a man with nicely gelled spikes and rub your hands all in it — so why would you decide to streak your gritty little palms all into my style?
If another drunk college kid throws a hand into my afro, I might spend the rest of my life behind bars.
It may be just an afro, but to me, it is a way of life.
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