That history was erased with the dawn of slavery. On slave ships, newly captured Africans were forcibly shaved in a profound act of dehumanization, an act that effectively severed the link between hair and cultural identity.
Postslavery, African American hair took on complex associations. “Good” hair was seen as anything closer to European standards of beauty. Good hair was straight and smooth. Curly, textured hair, the natural hair of many African Americans, was seen as bad. Straight hair was beautiful. Tightly curled hair was ugly. In the early 1900s, Madam C. J. Walker, an African American, became a millionaire by inventing and marketing hair care products to black women. Most famously, she improved on the design of the “hot comb,” a device for straightening hair. In the 1960s, George E. Johnson marketed the “relaxer,” a chemical product used to straighten otherwise curly African American hair. According to some estimates, the black hair care industry is worth more than one billion dollars annually.
Since postslavery days and through to modern times, debate has raged in the African American community. What does it mean to wear your hair natural versus straightened? Is straightening your hair a form of self-hatred? Does it mean you think your hair in its natural state is not beautiful? If you wear your hair naturally, are you making a political statement, claiming black power? The way African American women wear their hair has often been about much more than vanity. It’s been about more than just an individual’s notion of her own beauty.
When Natasha decides to wear hers in an Afro, it’s not because she’s aware of all this history. She does it despite Patricia Kingsley’s assertions that Afros make women look militant and unprofessional. Those assertions are rooted in fear—fear that her daughter will be harmed by a society that still so often fears blackness. Patricia also doesn’t raise her other objection: Natasha’s new hairstyle feels like a rejection. She’s been relaxing her own hair all her life. She’d relaxed Natasha’s since she was ten years old. These days when Patricia looks at her daughter, she doesn’t see as much of herself reflected back as before, and it hurts. But of course, all teenagers do this. All teenagers separate from their parents. To grow up is to grow apart.
It takes three years for Natasha’s natural hair to grow in fully. She doesn’t do it to make a political statement. In fact, she liked having her hair straight. In the future, she may make it straight again. She does it because she wants to try something new.
She does it simply because it looks beautiful.
Area Boy Is as Big an Asshole as His Brother
“Maybe you could just wait out here,” I said, like I’m ashamed of her, like I’m trying to keep her hidden. My regret is instantaneous. No waiting for a few minutes to realize the full impact of my words. Nope. Nope. Nope. Immediate and all-consuming.
And once they’re out, I can’t believe I said them. Is this what I’m made of? Nothing?
I’m a bigger asshole than Charlie.
I can’t look at her. Her eyes are on my face and I can’t look at her. I want that time machine. I want the last minute back.
I fucked up.
If it’s going to be Daniel and Natasha, then dealing with my dad’s racism is only the beginning. But she and I are just at the beginning, and I just don’t want to have to deal with him right now. I want to do the easy thing, not the right thing. I want to fall in love, with an emphasis on the falling part.
No obstacles in the way, please. No one needs to get bruised up falling in love. I just want to fall the way everybody else gets to.
I’LL BE FINE.
I’ll be fine waiting here. I understand. Really I do. But there’s part of me, the part that doesn’t believe in God or true love, that really wants him to prove me wrong about not believing in those things. I want him to choose me. Even though it’s way too early in the history of us. Even though it’s not what I would do. I want him to be as noble as he first seemed to be, but of course he’s not. Nobody is. So I let him off his own hook.
“Don’t worry so much,” I say. “I’ll wait.”
WHEN YOU’RE BORN, THEY (God or little aliens or whoever) should send you into the world with a bunch of free passes. A Do-Over, a Rain Check, a Take-Backsie, a Get Out of Jail Free Card. I would use my Do-Over now.
I look up at her and realize she knows exactly what I’m going through. She’ll understand if I just go inside and hand over the pouch and come back outside. Then we can just continue on our way and I won’t have to have any “Who was that girl?” conversations later with my dad. No “Once you go black” cracks from Charlie. This little weirdness will be a small hiccup on our road to greatness, to epic coupledom.
But I can’t do it. I can’t leave her out here. Partly because it’s the right thing to do. But mostly because she and I are not really at the beginning.
“Can I try that again?” I ask, deploying my Do-Over.
She smiles so big that I know that whatever happens will be worth it.
A BELL CHIMES AS SOON as we enter. It’s like every other beauty supply store I’ve ever been in. It’s small and crammed with rows of metal shelves overflowing with plastic bottles promising that their secret formula is best for your hair, skin, etc.
The cash register is right across from the entrance, so I see his father right away. Immediately I know where Daniel gets his good looks. His dad is older and balding, but he has the same sharp bone structure and perfectly symmetrical face that make Daniel so attractive. He’s busy ringing up a customer and doesn’t acknowledge Daniel at all, though I’m sure he saw us both. The customer is a boy around my age, black with short purple hair, three lip rings, one nose ring, an eyebrow ring, and too many earrings to count. I want to see what he’s buying, but it’s already bagged.