The Hair Up There (Narration Essay)

A child of the eighties, I’ve seen a lot of fads come and go—acid wash jeans, big belts with names embossed on the buckle, leg warmers for non-dancers, lip gloss, and big hair. Who could forget eighties hair—or seventies hair for that matter? For black woman, hair has long been an enigma wrapped in a riddle. Who knows when the battle was first waged. Hair has always been our pride and glory and the cause of sleepless nights and humiliation—whether upswept, or long and flowing, short and kinky, we obsess over it almost as much as we do our weight, our skin, our wardrobes.

When I was a little, probably that age when I was most impressionable, growing up in a family of women with hair hanging down past their shoulders, I was nicknamed Kojak. If you saw the television show’s star Telly Savalas’ bald head, bald before Michael Jordan made bald hot, you would know my angst. And of course, I was also a little girl. I was too young to recall when people actually using the name. But I didn’t have to guess why. I know-- such cruelty. But it was supposed to be funny. The little cute baby or toddler, that you just had to get her ears pierced and keep her in pink so that the world would know she was a girl. And ohhh how my mother and grandmother and aunts tried, as much as they could, to get that uncooperative hair to grow. They’d sit and ponder what thing: tonic, hair dress or food, scalp conditioner, lotion, heating cap, compress, (torture) they could use to convince my shy hair to come out of the shell that was my scalp. If it was advertised “Guaranteed to make hair grow,” it graced our bathroom shelf. And so eventually I had just enough to put into a little afro puff. It didn’t hit me or them until later that we all could have just gone with the flow, the natural evolution of hair. It will grow or it won’t, but for most girls it will be what it will be and all you can do is eat right and not put stress on it. So not only was I was the only girl in the family whose hair wasn’t flowing and blowing, I was also “blessed” with a shade that was sandy brown. But my mother, never one to succumb to failure, tried. However, the will of my hair was stronger than her will to overcome it. Plus there was her ineptitude at using the straightening come, so my hair, the little I had, never blew in the wind or fell back into place.

Lucky for me, during that time, my cousin married a beautiful girl named Lilly Mae. And Lilly Mae could work magic with hair—not with a straightening comb but with her fingers. Every Sunday, we’d sit in the kitchen when it was cool and on the porch when it was warm and while she talked to my mother, I would sit between her legs on a pillow or foot stool and have her braid the hair that was either ahead of its time or well behind. Every Sunday, she somehow managed to catch strands and work them into braids. They weren’t long and flowing, but they worked. Eventually, my hair became thicker, if not long, and pretty soft. Those were the days before weaves and extensions worked its way into the consciousness of Kingstree, South Carolina. And when she braided my hair, I would look in the mirror and be proud. Before long, the anemic afro puffs that graced my head were replaced with designs and braids and colored or wooden beads, and I too would have hair that moved—heck , that even made noise when I walked into the room. I felt cute. Just like my cousins with their long hair. Their mothers, seeing the magic Lilly Mae worked on my hair wanted their daughters’ hair braided too. Which she did. It became an event. Every Sunday afternoon, we’d take turns getting our hair washed having our manes turned into creative reflections of Lilly Mae’s hand. Sometimes we, the Cooper girls would have matching does. Our mother’s loved the beehive. Lilly Mae would start at the back and would braid one long cornrow around and around our heads. It was kind of reminiscent of a road twinning around a mountain. And at the top of our hair was one plait. That was the late seventies and early eighties. Right up until her divorce from our cousin. I think the Mothers were more hurt that they’d now have to take reign of our “does.”

So alas, the glory days ended. The Mother’s discovered Dark and Lovely and Jerri Curls. Chemicals came into the equation. And we were smitten. Chemicals that were guaranteed to make our hair straight, and thick, and healthy “looking.” Hair that wouldn’t take hours to untangle after washing. Our mothers could not resist the hype for long. Their friends scoffed when they saw the curling irons and straightening combs sitting on their perches by the stove. “Girl, I know you not gone sit all day on a Saturday straightening hair. That’s chile’s hair is too thick and long.” Of course this wasn’t said about me—yet. But one by one, the Mothers relented, experimenting on each daughter and cousin’s hair, until none could remember the natural texture of their locks. We wanted hair, not unlike white girls. We didn’t want blonde—yet, but we wanted to go swimming without having our hair turn toward our scalp-resisting the comb, brush, pick, etc. We wanted to get in the pool and come out with our hair essentially the same length as before we got in it. We wanted curls, tight and loose. We wanted to be able to shake our hair and have it move—bounce back into place without the straightening comb scars as reminders of the price we had to pay to look cute. Was that too much to ask? We soon got our answer.

I watched my cousins forsake natural and even the straightening come for chemically straightened or curled hair. Again there was that hair divide—and I stood on the other side—with my braids. Then with a little coercing my mother gave in. She gave me my first home relaxer. Of course it didn’t come out the way I imagined. My hair still seemed too thick and too kinky. It turns out she didn’t let it stay on my hair long enough. No one, not one of my cousins warned me that that stuff I was putting on my hair could burn just as bad as a hot comb. No one knew once you started with the relaxer or curly perm, you’d have to commit to retouches every four to six weeks. Who knew? We all seemed to miss that meeting. And what were the consequences of not getting a fresh supply of chemicals to saturate your mane? Breakage, thinning, etc. And what no one else bothered to say either was that too much would cause the same damage and make the hair brittle and chemically dependent—so to speak. A nasty little never ending cycle. And by the mid to late eighties—I had just about everything—straightening comb, relaxer, curly perm. If it was out I tried it.

Then it came. Late. But better late than never. Extensions added to your braids. And weaves sewed into braids or glued in. I tried those too. And it was a little reminiscent to sitting on the porch having Lilly Mae work her magic. However, her magic was essentially free. She massaged your scalp and asked if the braids were too tight. She cared. Extensions (back then) started at $50 bucks, and that didn’t include the hair, or whatever synthetic material they used. Plus, it could take up to 10 hours. Plus, it hurt. Your scalp was pulled so tight that you essentially had a semi-permanent smile and eyes that looked almost closed—almost Asian in appearance. But it seemed worth it, those 10 hours and that initial pain because you wouldn’t have to worry about your hair for months. Just get up and go.

Then came the moment when you had to take those braids out. In the shower, as you worked your way through knotted, matted tangles o hair, each time you’d swear that this was the last time. If you were lucky, you only loss a bit of your hair in the wash and comb-out session. If you weren’t you may have had serious damage, especially to those edges--around the hairline—permanent hair loss is not unknown.


I think all black girls have that period where they want to experiment. And most of us want the hair that we weren’t born with and maybe weren’t meant to have. So we internalize the negativity of something that most time is out of our control. Sure, I massacred my bangs trying to make them even, and I burned my scalp and clog drains with damaged hair because for us, black women, maybe for all women the hair is an extension of what it is to be a woman. Drilled into our psyche is the belief that beauty is important and beautiful hair is a part of that. Men want hair they can touch and run their fingers through, and nuzzle their noses in and that cascade over their face. At least that’s what we sometimes believe. And sure it could be true—for some. Maybe more than that, we want the hair that women admire and envy and praise. We want the hair that makes it on the cover of vogue even if we have the faces and bodies that won’t. With that knowledge, we straighten, we buy, we color. And somehow our pride and self-esteem and self worth become intertwined somewhere down the road.

But at least the crisis is over for me. At least for now. After years of nursing chemically fried hair, I’ve let go and as my grandmother says let god. College was an awakening of sorts for me; I met sistas who had it together, and they disavowed the straight long hair thing. No silky synthetic compromised their Afro-centric tresses; no Crème of Nature camouflaged their roots or edges. They were real and beautiful and courageous. And I thought if they can do it, why can’t I? So I did. I went to a barber shop and with a room full of supportive brothers, I freed myself from the chemical bondage I had subjected myself to for over fifteen year. With about a inch of hair evenly cut, I walked out the shop with a stylish mini-fro determined to decide for myself what was beautiful and not follow crowds of women to the beauty salons only to wait for hours and come out with temporary fixes and cure-alls. For over five years it has been to be naturally me, me and my twists or me and my spiral ringlets, or me and my braids (done by professionals), or me in my big healthy afro puff. And even we –women with nappy hair like me and broad noses like me and skin the color of coffee like me and full lips like me—who look like they could be my cousin or sister are on the covers of Vogue. When little sisters are caught in the grocery line staring into the glazed over eyes of anorexic models maybe they wont’ obsess about being blonde and blue eyed. Of course the obsession may now move to big breasts and long legs. One step at a time.