Don't Touch My Hair (A Solange reboot by a significantly less talented singer)

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I recently got a wig, and boy am I flossing. I am strutting around town like I declined an OBE. Right now, I feel like the world is my cat walk and honey, I ain't about to sashay away anytime soon. But when I take it off and I'm left with my cornrows, I feel less beautiful. Somehow, less fierce. Never mind that I can't pull of cornrows. But mind that I my self-esteem goes through the roof whenever I have extensions on - essentially whenever my hair is not in it's quintessential afro. And boy does this realisation hit you like a ton of bricks. 

How deeply internalised 'Black is not beautiful' is. How when I need to go to interviews, I can spend an hour on my hair ensuring its presentability. Willing the curls to be looser, or that they once, stop defying gravity with their propensity to stick up and out of place. Wishing that I had taken the effort to actually do my hair. Praying that no-one will notice. Taking the time to beat my face to perfection to somehow atone for the presence of my hair. Now for those who have read my earlier post, this may come as a shock. My complaints about being politicised now stand as the proverbial 'speck in my eye' as I politicise my hair. For this, I have no excuse other than that of self-expression. 

Do you know how much it sucks to realise that you only think of yourself as beautiful, as worthy when your hair isn't in it's natural state? To admit to yourself that in as much as you may have gone natural for your own sake, you still wish your hair was a different type of natural. One with a looser curl pattern that resembles ringlets rather than jagged edges that come together in an unholy orgy of togetherness not 30 seconds after you have detangled them. One that doesn't take 5 hours to clean, moisturise and style. One that isn't expensive to maintain. One where finding YouTube videos for your hair type, in a country that you inhabit, can only be likened to trying to lift Mjolnir when your worthiness is questionable. 

Though I have tried to take the patience and tenacity I am learning from styling my own hair in stride and applying it in other areas of my life, spiritual especially, I can't help looking wistfully at my hair of my biracial friends. Willing my hair not to shrink by eighty-fricking-five percent every mother fletching time. Besides, it's not like in an interview I could cite my hair for teaching me how to be adaptable, creative and tenacious. The point of reference is entirely esoteric for the, relevantly hair, male and pale labour force I will be entering. For in as much as black is beautiful, only certain types of black is beautiful.

I realised that I had privilege. Even as a black, immigrant, woman, I have privilege. I'm a part of team light skin. Additionally, given my Western accent, affluent upbringing and my love of all things geek, I'm viewed as a safer bet. For those who don't understand, my blackness is somehow not as threatening as those brothers and sisters of a darker, smoother complexion. My blackness is somehow, somewhat more acceptable. I'm essentially the Diet Coke of blackness. If I was being honest with myself, I enjoyed this privilege like most people with privilege do. Being able to find products when I needed. Being able to travel without people staring or presuming certain things about my background. Essentially being able to get as close to "normal" as possible. Yet my hair is a constant reminder of my blackness. A blackness I once wished would disappear so that I could be "normal". Normal being a straight, white, female. And my wig helps me get closer to this ideal. I honestly feel like Pecola from the Bluest Eye. The same pity and sympathy that I regarded her tragic existence is the same lens through which I view my torrid love affair with my being. 

This is not to say that I will relax my hair or burn my wig (as it is a protective style and my natural hair does need a break). But this is to say, that I need to start reevaluating where it is I get my standards of beauty. There is something to be said of God here. Of why he made me black. Of what he had in mind. But I know that, it will be used for good. See, black people amaze me. Our ability to celebrate when all seems lost (see the Creation of the Notting Hill Carnival in 1957) is fantastic. Our shared ability to refuse the boundaries imposed upon us is inspiring. Our ability to rise despite the mass resistance we experience, be it external or the external internalised, is knee-buckling. The sense of community we foster is unmatched anywhere else. And this is why my internalisation of 'Black is not beautiful' stings especially. I aim to inspire the next generation of black women to be confident and unapologetic in their blackness yet I can't even do that.

Location: United Kingdom

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