Since this is my situation, it was particularly interesting to read an article about a recent experiment in Central Park where Black women with different hair types were holding signs that said "You Can Touch My Hair".
On one hand, I thought it was a thought provoking way to get a dialogue going since it seems like a lot of non-Black people are curious about Black hair.
On the other hand, while I have had the maddening experience of having a random White person pawing through my hair, what happens most frequently now are the questions and the probing stare:
- How long does that take?
- How do you get it to look like that?
And my all time favorite:
- I'd just love to do that to my hair!
OK, quick tip: If you are going to ask a Black woman about her hair (and you're not Black), then you should be considered a friend. Not a co-worker. Not an acquaintance. I'm talking about a person you confide in and they confide in you. They know where you live and have been to your house (and not as the help). If it's a person you see in the break room at work or in the elevator then save your question. Write it down and refer to another source: GOOGLE. Hell, start with Chris Rock's movie, Good Hair. Maybe make some Black friends. Hopefully, you'll like them and keep them around for more than just the low down on our hair. Maybe you can learn even more, like gang initiation rituals, Hip-Hop culture 101 or how to run from the killer in a horror flick with out falling down.
What I do or have done to my hair may not be impossible for you. Well, actually, it probably is. That's not the point.
The point is, I'm not a walking encyclopedia on Black hair. All I want to do is get my coffee or get down to the plaza level, not give you a quick and dirty peek behind the curtain. Don't cry to me about how your bone straight hair just won't behave, how limp and lifeless it is. I don't care. Black women really have to actively decide to love their hair. It's a life long journey. Inside most of us is that pig-tailed little girl, having that ugly cry about our hair, feeling betrayed by the fact that our hair doesn't do what yours does, what we have been told it should do, and it never will.
For most Black women, the decision to go swimming is a major one. Don't ask me why.
The perming process makes our hair straight, not curly. Don't ask me why.
A hot comb will make our hair straight too. Don't ask me what that is or why.
The braiding process can take hours (or sometimes days) and yes, we'll sit for that long. Don't ask me how or why.
It's a vicious circle anyway. One question always leads to another and now the train has left the station. Now I'm holding a fucking seminar in the hallway. In the midst of this, I'm wondering why in the 2013 people still don't have at least one Black friend they could ask all this shit.
Perhaps that will be the question I'll ask.
