The first time a school acquaintance entered my car for a ride back to her home, she did not initially introduce herself to my mother, but instead greeted the entire car (my sister, my mother, and I) with an exclamation of “Wow! All of you have the coolest hair I’ve ever seen!” Rather than lament the loss of respect that Western children have for their elders-- as she would have definitely done with me-- my mother sheepishly grinned and thanked her. It’s a veritable fact- my mom was rocking her trademark strawberry blonde ‘fro puff, my younger sister her faux dreads of yarn, and I, sporting multi colored hair extensions-, but I felt that it was the ineptness of my white friend holding a veil over her eyes. It took years for me to realize how integral hair is, and continuously will be to my existence.
The moments spent doing our hair are some of the most fundamental to the function of Black spaces. What keeps family-owned Barber shops and beauty salons opened is the regular influx of community. Black people definitely aren’t the only ones who At the same time, who are the people who spend hours and days retwisting, plaiting, packing, sewing their hair? Who else is sitting in the
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Every time I traveled to my motherland Nigeria, my mother gifted me with a special package. Inside would be freshly laced Kanekalon braiding hair. I recall the last time we went-- the smells of busy food vendors on my aunt’s Lagos street only made the excitement inside of me bubble more on the way to the shopping complex to get my hair traditionally box braided. The 3 hour process was painstaking for the young Adaora, but the hurt was worth the payoff: silky smooth armpit-long micro braids. In my mind, I was undergoing my transformation into an African monarch. I will never forget a White pal’s joking sneers of “You must think you’re hot stuff because you’ve got a weave now” and how those words hurt my pride more than they should