AphroChic Magazine: Issue No. 1

HOT TOPIC
Don’t Touch My Hair
It’s 1984 and I’m six years old, one of the few Black kids in my mostly white suburb, and
it’s the night before school picture day. My mother is straightening my hair. The hot
comb sizzles at my edges. She warns me not to move or I will get burned. She doesn’t
need to remind me. My ears have been here before and we both know I’m going to get
burned no matter how still I am.
The battle has begun. My hair is
unruly, wild, out of control; it needs
to be subjugated. The comb will make
sure of it. I get burned, but it’s a small
price to pay for the perfect first grade
photo - I’ll look just like the other
girls. By the second grade, my mother
is elated. No more hot comb needed.
There’s a new product on the market -
kiddie perms. Now I’ll look just like the
girl on the box. Her hair is silky with
sheen and perfect curls, it never fights
back, it’s completely under control.
Now all I have to do is sit still, let it set
in, just a little longer, a little longer…it
doesn’t even burn (well, at least not as
much as the hot comb).
For years my hair was a battle
ground. Wars were waged with hot
combs, lye, flat irons, brushes, curling
irons, anything to make it “acceptable.”
Acceptable meant straight.
Straighter than it was when it grew out
of my head. Straight like it belonged to
somebody else. When it was straight, I
was pretty. Pretty was something that
burned, something I got out of a box.
Pretty meant under control - sitting
perfectly still and lifeless while heat
and chemicals taught my hair to do the
same. But it sent the right message,
it made me acceptable, and it never
lasted for more than a few weeks. When
that perm started to sweat out, pretty
was done and I was advised that I had
better address my “kitchen.”
Fast forward to 2001, the age of
neo-soul, Lauryn Hill’s baby fro, and
my big chop. I was sick of perms, tired
of the girls on the boxes. I decided it
was time to begin my journey into (or
back to) my actual hair. The initial hair
cut was the toughest. The result was
short and stubbly, not exactly flattering,
but it was mine. Thankfully my
tight curls quickly grew into a wellstacked
afro that I styled with colorful
fabrics and wraps. By now the visual
cues of conformity were all but lost.
My mother feared I would never find a
job, even though I already had one. But
if I wasn’t going to be hired because of
what naturally grew from my head, I no
longer cared. It was time to be free. Now
my hair is long and luxurious; dozens
of tightly bound locks that cascade
down my back or over my shoulders
Words by Jeanine Hays. Photo opposite by Jessica Felicio
aphrochic