It's All Good Hair
Two years ago, which feels more like a million years ago because it was at least three different versions of me ago, at the beginning of my thesis process, my working title, thanks to A, was It’s All Good Hair. I wanted to explore my identity and its evolution through my ever-changing relationship with my hair. As I dove into the thesis, however, the quilting metaphor took over and so my hair, much like a lonely tumble-weave, was left on the studio floor.
But I never forgot it. During one of the rehearsals early in that process, I asked the dancers to share their hair stories, which they graciously did. What was (not) surprising was how similar our stories were. At some point as young girls, the natural state of our hair became ‘bad’ and we spent considerable time, money, and discomfort to make our hair ‘good’. The more it burns the straighter it will be; if my skin can’t be snow at least have my hair blow, right?
In my case, I was on the creamy crack for 9+ years during which time I feared water in all its forms, especially rain and pool parties, and I embarked on an endless search for just the right product or combination of products that would keep my ‘bad’ hair ‘good’. When one too many chemical burns later, I did the big chop and never looked back. But it took another almost seven years before I found S, and once I did I told her as long as there is hair on my head she can never retire. She is that good. Of all my goodbyes from Maryland, the two hardest, the goodbyes that resulted in the blubbery ugly crying were to my hairstylist S and my therapist P. I was not only saying goodbye to them I was also saying goodbye to my safe spaces. Those spaces where I could just be, I could leave my unwieldy, cracked armor at the door and just be myself and know that I was enough.
When I was a child, the hair salon was a place that promised beauty and pampering, albeit at a cost. As an adult, it was a place where I could be with other black women and marvel at our diversity amidst the sensual orchestra of the sounds of hair dryers, wash sinks and laughter, the smells of hot hair and whatever Carol’s Daughter product was in fashion, and the feel of S’s hands in my hair detangling, massaging and re-twisting my hair. The promise of beauty also came with the promise of peace, of space and time away from the ‘Nicole McClam Show’. It is an environment into which M recently entered (and loves). In her, I see my memories of that promised beauty and the indulgence of having someone to fuss over you.
As I gather my west Texas tribe, I realize an important person in that tribe will be my hairstylist. It’s not that I can’t do my own hair or that I’m afraid of my hair. Anymore. And yes, I do acknowledge I basically outsourced an entire section of my body and identity to someone else to define, but a) don’t we all do that in some capacity and b) S did a really great job of it. I’m looking for a hairstylist in Lubbock, TX, a very homogenous place, because going to get my hair done is a ritual that is very important and meaningful to me. Beyond the promise of beauty, the hair salon, to use my fancy grad-school language, is an intra-racial homosocial space where I can talk too much and I can laugh too loud; I can re-member myself in ways that my other social situations do not allow me to do.
