Every woman has a deep emotional attachment to their hair. It’s a part of them, yes, but it’s a part of who they truly are deep down as well. We change our hair when something drastic or traumatic happens in our lives - it serves as something we can control when everything else around us is out of our control. Our hair is a blackboard where we write our names. Our hair is as much a part of our outfits as our shoes, and some of us change our hair more often than our shoes. Our hair can be as outspoken as a fashion statement or as low-key as a diary.
Gif description: Damian from the film Mean Girls referring to Regina George, saying ”That’s why her hair is so big. It’s full of secrets.”
And while men too have hair, we throw hundreds of dollars at it to keep it tamed. This is something women can stand somewhat unified on, but like most things in our culture, there’s a subculture centered around black women.
Black hair is so… undefinable. It’s malleable and moldable, yet like a strong black woman, you can’t tell it what to do if it doesn’t want to listen. That’s why we wield burning hot tools and noxious chemicals to get it to submit to our will. It’s boldness and brazenness has been known to claim the lives of picks and combs and Bobby pins and ponytail holders. There’s entire films about the temperamental nature of hair, a billion dollar industry built around it, competitions and magazine spreads putting it center stage. But most importantly, there’s a culture.
Gif description: a black woman fluffs out her Afro with her fingers while looking in a mirror
There’s the generations of black women flinching when they pull the ancient hot comb out of it’s resting place when the youngest daughter has to look her Easter best. There’s the afternoons and late evenings spent at the salons and the barbershops starving until the local jerk chicken man untucks his styrofoam gold. There’s Twitter posts consisting of single images that end up resonating with a community that you never felt a part of before. There’s the trauma of picture days and office badges, and employability based on whether your natural is in it’s natural habitat at work. There’s folx who don’t get it and folx that do, friends who may not understand you having to take an entire day off to do your hair, and boyfriends that’ll sit beside you and unbraid your extensions for you. And every time you set foot in the beauty supply store, thinking you’ve seen every product under the sun, you find another brand that just might be the one to get those “naps” under control. Or maybe this is the day that you stop trying to control it, and let your hair do the talking. Maybe this is your “big chop” or your “backslide into relaxers” or your introduction to weave or just another wash-n-go day for you. Maybe this is for you. But mostly this is for me.
For those of you who know me, I was traditionally an outcast. I never quite fit in with the black community, and the reasons why are an article for another time. But I can say that it was never for lack of effort on my family’s part. My mom did her best to show me how beautiful my skin and my hair were: only buying me the black Barbie dolls, digging up any character that remotely looked like me to make sure I saw myself out there. And because of her, I never grew up hating my skin or hating my hair. Thank you for that, mom.
I also have to thank her for trying her best with my hair. There was definitely a disconnect when it came to the family hair genes. My mom and my brothers had tight knit afros. My sister, aunt, and grandmother had relaxed, straightened hair. My hair, being both kinky and long, didn’t really know what it wanted to do. And my mom tried her hand at everything to help me manage it, even if it meant accepting defeat and tagging in the pros. To my family’s credit, I never hated my hair. But my hair and I weren’t really on speaking terms, either. We were basically two separate entities with complex living arrangements. But that didn’t make my hair journey any less difficult. And I’ve got the stretched out bonnets, tangled wigs, and broken Afro picks to prove it.
Gif description: Coco from the film Dear White People is taking off a long black wig with bangs, revealing a wig cap before flashing to her wearing a blonde wig with loose curls.
After 27 years of undergoing extreme personal growth, both spiritually, emotionally, and follically, I am documenting my hair journey at the encouragement of my current go-to hair dresser and soon-to-be mother-in-law. Because I know I’m not the only one out there with a hair journey, and maybe by documenting mine, I can save another black girl seconds from breaking down in the “Black” section of her nearest Walmart to her out-of-state college dorm some struggle. Or maybe I’ll just reflect on how far I’ve come.
Welcome to the Fro-Logues.
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