A three part series where I share excerpts from my memoir titled Unicorns are pretty but they also bite. This series will cover my relationship with my hair because black hair is often talked about and criticized.
You’re probably thinking, ‘why is this beautiful, magical unicorn of a woman devoting an entire chapter about hair?’ To that I say, why thank you kind sir and/or madam. There really is a reason. My hair has been and continues to be one of my crowning achievements (I mean, look at it!), bane of my existence, and an interesting cross-section of my gender/race. Whoa, didn’t see that last one coming did you?
Since I was a babe, my hair was considered ‘good hair.’ That mythical, illusory definition within the black community of grade-A quality hair. What is good hair? I don’t really know. All I do know is what my hair is. On the dry-to-moisturized spectrum, it tended toward pretty well-hydrated. Also, I could grow it fairly long.
My hair could grow as long as bra-strap level. And, before you ask, no I did not take a picture of it because a.) this pre-dated the selfie craze and b.) I’m not big on having my pictures taken. Shocking I know because have you seen me?! In general I rocked my (relaxed) hair about midway between the shoulder and arm-pit length.
So, from the womb, I was imbued with this idea that I had ‘good hair.’ It was a source of envy. A source of pride (especially in the case of my mother) that I had it. It was like opening day at the zoo and I was the chief animal on display. To be cooed over. To be petted.
Although my lovely tresses rested on my head, I got the strong sense (and still do) that my hair is not my own, to do whatever I want to do with it.
No one ever stopped to consider the girl attached to the hair. But plenty of people were quick to tell me what I should (and shouldn’t) do with my hair.