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Detangling


I spent the better part of the morning last week detangling my hair and twisting it into Bantu knots, my first attempt, and a very different look for me. M thought they looked cute, fun, and she wanted me to make ‘pom poms’ of her hair. Her hair is too silky so hers fell right out.

Inside my apartment, I felt proud that I accomplished this task in getting to know and take care of my hair, but I felt entirely different about the idea of leaving my apartment with them. I was (not entirely) surprised to feel embarrassed about my hair; her texture, her lack of movement, and that she is parted into many sections scream ‘Other’ differently than her usual two-strand twists. The two-strand twists move or can be styled, it’s a non-creamy-crack version of long straight hair. I did leave the apartment (because I had to), but I wore a hat as much as possible, which is not a comfortable feat when the temperature is in the 80s.

I felt ashamed of my embarrassment over my hair. It has taken a long time and a lot of YouTube tutorials to get over my fear of engaging in this act of self-care of accepting my hair in her natural state and lovingly touching it. But this process of self-care is visible and “different” and something I don’t find safe sharing with Lubbock.

I mentioned this to some of my colleagues, also women of color, and with their battle cry, “Decolonize your hair!” I felt safe with them in taking off my hat and showing off my Bantu knots while in the dance building, an unabashedly feminine space, where I did receive several compliments on my new style. But fear kept my hat firmly on my head during the faculty meeting where I was in the company of mostly white men.

A friend and teacher wrote a blog post recently about self-care being an act of resistance. I get it; when you practice those acts of self-care you are telling yourself that you matter and you refuse get caught up in unsustainable or harmful ideals, particularly those harder, faster, bigger, better, more of western culture. But those revelatory acts like meditating or eating wholesome food or unplugging from social media for a day are quiet, subtle. Wearing Bantu knots (in west Texas), is a rather blatant message of self-care; I proclaim (loudly) via my hair that I am black and refuse to fall in line with the Eurocentric standard of beauty that dictates my hair be long and straight.

While this probably is the perfect time and place to resist, the actual doing makes me squeamish. As one of few people of color, bringing attention to myself as ‘Other’ is not always a comfortable action. I’m also trying to get a more permanent position here. For all their talk of diversity, there is a pressure to assimilate and sporting Bantu knots does not help me do that, at least not visually, and those visuals are important.

However long I/we stay in west Texas; I feel that the need to take care of myself as a black woman will be at odds with the predominantly white culture. But how long can I afford to not take care of myself despite others’ discomfort at the sight of me?


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