The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl (10 page)

I first expressed my desire to cut off all my hair via Facebook. The response was all but encouraging.

“But what if you have a lumpy shaped head?”

“HAHAHAH you’re gonna look so busted!”

“Don’t do iiiiiiit!”

“OMG, if you do, take pictures!”

With so many strong opinions, the stubborn girl in me was insistent on going through with it. However, before I made my decision, I briefly discussed it with my boyfriend.

“I’m thinking about cutting my hair,” I told him over the phone.

“Why?”

“Because I’m tired of it. I want to start over and grow it out again.”

“I don’t think you should do it.”

He changed the subject to something else, but I had already made up my mind. Two weeks later, on a crisp October Friday evening, I drove myself to the salon down the street and walked in.

“Hey, is your barber in today?” I asked upon entering.

“Yeah, but he’s backed up. Whatchu want done?” the receptionist asked, her back turned to me.

“I want to cut off all my hair.”

She turned around. “You want to go bald?”

“Yes.”

“You going through some
Waiting to Exhale
shit?”

“No. I just want to start over.”

“Okay. Go see Keith over there.”

I sat down next to three men, who were also waiting as Keith
lined up a customer. Recognizing that this was going to take a while, I texted two of my dearest friends.

ME:
I’m doing it. I’m at the barber now.

JEROME:
Nuh-unh! I just got off, I’m coming.

DEVIN:
Me too!

My friends joined me within the hour and stayed with me as I sat, bursting with excitement and anticipation. Two hours later, Keith was ready for me.

“So you just want me to cut it off?” he asked, unfazed.

“Yes. All of it.”

“Cool.”

And with that, he swiftly took the cutters to the front of my head.
Bzzzzzz.
As he started to George Jefferson me, I watched my locks fall down to the ground with a brief moment of panic. Was I doing the right thing? I could stop now and just wear a hat for months. But before I could complete the thought, half my hair was gone. It was time for me to accept my decision. I watched my friends’ eyes for any sign of horror; none so far. When it was over, the ladies in the salon and the barber all looked on with smiles.

“Wow, bald looks good on you.”

“For real. You got a cute-shaped head. Not a lot of women can pull that off.”

I turned to my friends.

“It actually looks . . . beautiful,” said Devin.

“You look gorgeous. Not gonna lie—I thought you’d look ugly as $#&%. But, wow,” Jerome marveled.

I smiled and held the mirror up. There I was.

Initially, I’d decided to cut all my hair off as a way to start over
and
to take a break from the stress that my hair was causing me. Yet in doing so, I found it liberated me in ways I could never imagine. Not only was it a lazy person’s idea of heaven, but having no hair showed me how stupid and trivial my insecurities about hair were. Where Samson found strength in his locks, I shed them to find mine. It was one of the best, most life-affirming decisions I’ve ever made.

Now, my hair and I are best friends. We’ve formed a new relationship and a mutual respect for
each
other. I’m learning to take care of her and am no longer afraid to introduce her to my friends. It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world to be comfortable in my own healthy hair. Though my boyfriend initially hated my bald head, the sixth-grade me would be pleased to know that, contrary to what those middle school bitches thought, he appreciates me as I am.

ABG Guide: The Hair Advantage

F
or the masses, the hair of the Awkward Black Girl (and even Boy) is an enigma. Though not generally known, NASA is even examining strands of our hair for space research, as its gravity-defying properties are key to missing answers in the field of aeronautics. Its buoyancy and ability to shrink when exposed to water is also rumored to be studied by scientists interested in underwater living.

It’s not just appealing to science; entrepreneurs see opportunity too. Every day more and more products appear to cater to the diverse spectrum of our hair. Each new product claims the ability to tame our hair in a way that other manufacturers don’t understand. Subscription boxes, forums, online videos, community meet-ups, and conferences are all dedicated to the mastery of hair. It’s a billion-dollar industry.

For the Awkward Black Girl, it is important to view hair as the ultimate form of expression, an opportunity to be noticed and/or
to be understood. Complete strangers can become allies or even friends due to respect for each other’s hair. This can be positively promising. But there remains a sensitivity with our hair when others
express unwarranted opinions and questions.

Even within the black community, hair adjectives like
laid
,
fried
,
nappy
,
jacked
,
whipped
,
dry
, and
snatched
are all used to convey approval or disapproval. They are used judgmentally, as if they assess not just hair but also character, quality of life, and decision-making skills. When dealing with people who pose so-called questions even as they judge you, here are some foolproof responses.

Question:
“Is it real?”

Thanks to the widespread popularity of hair extensions, this question is no longer asked solely within the black community. Some people are even desensitized to the question. For those who aren’t, the proper response is usually, “Is yours?” with a smile. If that person does not relent, you can try, “It’s as real as you are bold,” with a friendly chuckle. Passive aggression is absolutely appropriate in this instance. (Equal offenders:
Is it yours? How long is your actual hair
?
)

Opinion:
“It’s so soft. I wasn’t expecting that.”

A backhanded compliment I receive often, it always begs the silently self-posed question, “What exactly were you expecting? Did you expect it to prick you like cotton plants, or to feel rough like gauze tape?” This usually comes from friends I’ve let touch it, or whom I’ve asked to braid my hair, or from chatty hairstylists. The only response I’ve been able to muster is a curt, “I know, isn’t it?”

Question:
“Can I touch it?”

The dreaded question that many with “ethnically expansive” hair have heard countless times. A simple, “Are your hands clean?” not only infantilizes the request, but it also sends the message that your hair isn’t the sheep exhibit at the petting zoo. Should you decide to decline the request, a polite “I’d rather you not” should do the trick. If you see that the asker’s spirit is crushed, and you’re inclined to care, simply qualify your denial with, “I’m
very
tender-headed.”

Opinion:
“You should press it.”

This opinion is almost always unsolicited. It is an opinion most commonly held by the older generation in the South where, in certain parts, natural hair is meant to be hidden, not seen. So as not to cause confusion or uproar, a simple “Maybe” or “One day” is enough to give them the hope that you’ll gain some sense and “do something with that hair.”

Question:
“How did you get your hair like that?”

If the question’s context refers to a complicated hairstyle, i.e. gravity-defying twists or an insanely thick side bun, this question is acceptable. If this question refers to one’s hair texture, i.e. “Can I make my hair ‘nappy’ like yours?” or “Why doesn’t my hair shrink when water touches it?” then we have a problem. Because “kinkify it” is not a readily available option in the hair salon, those whose scalps don’t naturally produce such awe-inducing tresses may be confused or uninformed. So as not to exhaust oneself by explaining genetics, an appropriate response would be, “I woke up like this.”

Opinion:
“I wish my hair did that.”

Ah, hair envy. There is no proper response to appease those who can’t achieve the nap-tural roots. But this admission, especially given the self-esteem-threatening history of “nappy” rejection, is always appreciated. An appropriate response is, “Thanks.”

By the year 2100, when the world is even more globally connected, with intergalactic travel common and interracial mixing the default, we can expect less of a fascination with the mystery of “black” hair. Until then, during your lifelong hair journey, understand that many will want to touch your hair and some will. A number will speculate on its authenticity; few will care. Consistency is boring. Variety is key. Don’t be afraid to try various styles and numerous textures, with confidence. Proudly exclaim, “
I can wear my hair however I want, whenever I want, anywhere I want!
” The advantages of black hair are infinite.

Public Displays of Affection

W
hile I was scrolling through Twitter, I came across this picture on Instagram that a ponytail-wearing, plaid-shirt-donning, braces-wielding teenage girl posted. In it, she smiled happily in the mirror, her room adorned with all the generic decorations that fourteen-year-old girls fancy. She lay on her bed, stomach down, elbows propped up, to pose for her picture. At the foot of the bed, directly behind her, stood her bare bird-chested, undergarmentless, curly-high-top teenage boyfriend. His penis wasn’t visible because, well, because they were
doing
it.

Kids, these days—gotta love ’em.

As social media redefines the boundaries of privacy, and the term “public” expands to limits that I can’t even fathom, one thing remains the same:
I don’t EVER want to see you and your significant other’s displays of affection.

PDA used to be more or less avoidable. As in, I could just turn my head and walk in the other direction or leave the dinner that we agreed would be just the two of us, to which you brought your new
girlfriend with whom you keep making out. But since a relationship isn’t officially recognized by the public these days without an incessant display of a couple’s inseparability, here we are. And it’s gross. And inconsiderate.

According to my mother, when I was a toddler I used to love PDA. Whenever I’d see two characters on-screen kissing, I would exclaim, “Look, Mommy, they’re married!” Had I employed the same prudish logic in my teenage years, maybe I would have surmised that my parents’ marriage wasn’t doing so well. They never kissed in front of us. Or said “I love you” in front of us. In fact, the words “I love you” were reserved for life-threatening occasions (i.e. air travel and accidents) and birthday-card signatures. There was no doubt in our minds that our parents loved each other, but if I were to evaluate my parents’ love based on their PDA, I’d think they were just above an arranged marriage.

My parents had other ways of showing their affection without openly fondling each other. They joked frequently and often made each other laugh. I think my mom made my dad laugh more, which I loved. Even now, our sense of humor is what binds us as a family. It’s how we express love. It’s the reason that I sit at the kitchen table for hours at a time when my four siblings are in town and just laugh and laugh. I don’t know that I’ve ever told any of my siblings that I love them, but if anything, my tearful laughter expresses that emotion on my behalf.

Perhaps it’s because I’ve found other ways to say “I love you”
without
saying those exact words that I have trouble saying it now. The words seem so unnecessarily dramatic. I would much rather be shown love than to merely hear the words. Not everyone agrees; some people won’t know it’s love until the expression of it is so obvious and public it’s displayed on Facebook.
Really?
If
you ask me, your unctuous displays of love should be kept to your damn self.

Growing up, the words “I love you” were a special gift, from me to you. I didn’t say it often and when I said it, I absolutely meant it. It was for you and only you at the specific time that I chose to utter it. Then I went to private school in Brentwood and befriended a bunch of white girlfriends who dished out those words as if they were meaningless.

“Ohmygodiloveyou.”

“I love you, you’re the best.”

“Can I just say that I love you?”

I would always just laugh it off, unsure of what to say in return, worried about being insincere. I watched as those words turned into public caressing and hand-holding and kissing and groping. It was almost as if they were checking to see if anyone was watching, hoping they were watching. Mini, preteen exhibitionists.

The first time I was both intrigued and repulsed by PDA was when my younger siblings and I took a trip with my parents to Paris. We were visiting my Tonton Bocar’s family and sightseeing. As we walked through some famous Parisian park that I couldn’t have cared less about—because I was ten and tired of walking and developing what would become a lifelong hatred for tourism—I spotted a couple on the open lawn, going
at
it. They were laid out on a blanket as the man kissed the woman’s neck and started to disrobe her. She stroked his back, her eyes thrilled and ecstatic. Then as I walk-watched, I swear I noticed her check to see if anyone was watching. Like, “Look at me and my adventurous sexual relationship. Look at ME, EVERYBODY!” And
that
, more than the public act of doing it in a park full of kids, was what disturbed and annoyed me most. How dare she?

PDA signals a desperate need for outside validation of one’s
relationship status. “Look at how he kisses me in front of you all. Surely he loves me. Don’t you wish you had this?”

How ironic, then, that my very first kiss was a public display of affection. Well, not really “affection,” so much as “acquaintance.” A shameful display of acquaintance. I don’t know how it happened, but I was so proud of myself at the time. I felt so validated. It was the summer after sixth grade. My mother had decided that the school I was attending, Palms Middle School, wasn’t enough of a challenge for me. Not only that, but my sixth-grade best friend Ashley’s mother had decided to enroll her in a private school. When Ashley was pulled out of Palms, I was, too. The entire process was just like applying for college, I’d find out later. My mother set up appointments for me at the top private schools, Harvard-Westlake, Windward, Archer, Crossroads, and Brentwood. Once there, I’d interview with the headmasters and charm them with my intellect and vast and worldly twelve-year-old experience. Then I’d go back to sixth grade and sit in class, fantasizing about my new, diverse, state-of-the-art future.