According to media and general society up until recently, a beautiful woman was a thin blond with long wavy hair immortalized and perpetuated by the means of Barbie. I've never been Barbie.
And up until I was 16 I always wanted to someday be like her. Well growing up I wanted to be a brunette white woman like that girl from Dawson's Creek. I thought she was really pretty. Until I heard a poem called "Barbie's suicide letter" by a South African poet called Masillo. I loved her for it! She had killed her inner Barbie and accepted what she really looked like. Accepted that she was beautiful in her black skin and baldness.
Up until now I've been on a mission to prove mainly to my parents that I can have beautiful well maintained natural hair despite the pressure to perm and conform. For a while I've been in natural forums and preaching the natural movement with other women who have the same passion, not against perms or weaved but for choice. Today I have to accept something that I've been running from for quite a while now. Welcome to my politics of hair and beauty.
While I was transforming into a conscious teen I cut my permed hair as a statement that I was moving forward into true self discovery. I could not express this to the people that meant the most to me, my family, because I knew the ridicule that would come from it. When I failed to maintain it due to lack of knowledge I used to twist my hair into mini- locks in the weekends when I went out and hide from everyone until I got back and took out the twists. One silly day I forgot to wear my hat to hide my twists before I got back into the house and walked into my mom and older sister. They just burst out laughing at me. They ridiculed me and when I tried to explain it to them they told me I was going through a phase. My purpose and opinion was brushed aside just like that. I was told to clean up and look decent.
The first phase of self esteem for a girl I would think, would be reassurance from parents and family that she is beautiful. I was no stranger to that. In my youth I was praised and told I was pretty as a picture. However when it started to matter, in my teenage years, I was told my idea of beauty was indecent and not normal. My natural self was indecent and not normal. My mom was afraid that my dad would see me that way and that his opinion would be worse. It was. But I wasn't to find that out till later.
When I faltered under the pressure, I permed my hair again. The first day I went back to school with relaxed hair, I had many compliments from the boys and girls ( but the boys mattered more because I was straight and crushing hard). They liked my permed hair. One particularly came to me and said, "You look beautiful. You should always keep your hair this way." I think any teenager likes to be told they look good. Was I satisfied that the boys thought I was pretty? Yes I was. Was I satisfied that my hair was permed? No. Perms have always been torture to me. The whole process is a nightmare.
One of my early memories is being about 8 or 9, sitting in between the legs of a distant cousins while she braided my permed hair, pulling roughly at my scalp telling me to endure it because we girls have to suffer for beauty. At that stage, she was much older than me so I didn't argue. My aunt had asked her to "help" me by braiding my long thick hair because it would make getting ready for school easier. I remember sitting between her legs thinking " I am already pretty, I don't need this." And also thinking " If I'm not pretty, why should I suffer for it? Why shouldn't I just accept that I'm ugly outside and work on being pretty inside?Is this really worth it? Is she just doing this on purpose because my hair is longer than hers and she's jealous? " But that could've been because I was raised by a woman who didn't value beauty as currency but rather promoted hard work. I was used to being called pretty without pain added to it. This suffering for beauty notion was foreign to me.
At the dawn of my empowerment,during college, I took charge of myself and cut my permed hair again, much to the dissapoinent of some of my new friends. Black people have this notion that cutting long hair is blasphemy since a lot of girls have trouble growing it. That's not an issue for me. I lost a significant amount of weight too in college. Suddenly, my natural hair was no longer a problem. It was liberating and kinda euphoric, being attractive and being me at the same time. Maybe it was because I was amongst educated people who could see my cause? I'll never know. When I went home, it was a mission. My friends always noticed that when I came back from home after the summer, I always had braids. My parents would have it no other way. Braids became my saving grace.
Alas when I finished college I went to live with my sister for a year in Johannesburg and sported my natural hair once again, getting weaves when I went home to Maritzburg, until I decided that I wanted to really work on having my dreadlocks. One year of dreadlocks that wouldn't lock because my hair was too fine, I had them sowed up and was really patient until I had to move back home. My dreadlocks were coming along fine, I even got advice from the Rastas and they said I just need patience. I knew this was true. Then the doom started all over again.
Months and months of my fathers continuous badgering me that I looked like a hoodlum with dreadlocks and that my personal style was distasteful. My mother would plead with me that my father was on her case everyday about the way I look. Way to go, me, for making my parents fight because of the way I looked being natural. Months and months of pleading with me that I didn't look decent or normal. In the end, I thought it was horrible for me to make my parents feel so ugly and unaccomplished by my appearance. How dare I, under their roof, be less than the image they want for themselves? I chose to respect their opinions over my own and I changed the way I looked. I permed my hair, I got a weave. I stopped wearing bracelets and started wearing plain clothes. I looked " decent". I did it for them and they were happy for it. I mean, who doesn't want to make their parents proud?
But I didn't feel prettier. I didn't feel better. I felt used. Used for someone else's happiness. Used as an image, a front. Used as comfort. Used, in my own flesh, to be something that I am not. Yes, all these feelings came from the hair. It's THAT serious for me, despite what other people say about putting too much emphasis on "just hair". I am not beautiful to my parents anymore like I was when I was an obedient child. A permed child, pretty as a picture like they used to say. I'm not and I have to accept it. My inner being holds no water to what I look like outside when I represent my parents to the world. I just don't " look" the part that's associated with what they think is wholesome. I look like a hoodlum.
The first thing I did when I got out of my parents house was transition my hair back to natural and finally cut the permed hair off. I've been natural for two and a half years now. I hope to never have to live with my parents again. I have since been learning my own hair and it frustrates me at times because perming would be so much easier but I can't forget the pain and dissatisfaction it comes with. I also can't forget how much I miss the texture of my own hair when it is permed, or even when it's hiding under braids for a few weeks or months.
Being that the pressure came first from home, I was less aware of the pressure from outside of home because I didn't care much for it. But now that in alone, it stings. Now that I'm alone in a different country, it stings even more.
Regardless of my hair, back in my home country, I was attractive. Being curvy or plus size isn't really an issue where I come from. But that's different in Japan and I've learned it's also different in America( which puzzles me because it's the worlds capital for obesity). Regardless of that, I wasn't bothered about it until I noticed that people actually do treat me different out here because I'm big. Those experiences may or may not come in a different post. Long story short , being darker skinned and fat is the opposite of what's considered beautiful in Japan. Japanese people don't really care about my hair, they think it's mysterious. Now seeing that I have a lot of American friends and socialize a lot with Americans, I have discussions about hair with them, especially the blacks. That's wonderful.
However it isn't when it comes to dating.
My third point of rejection comes from the black men of my race. I cannot keep my mind from flashing back to my teenage years where I was praised for a perm. Therefore when I'm dating someone and they say, " babe why don't you do your hair like her?" And they show me a picture of a black girl in a weave, sirens pop up everywhere in my brain. This man thinks I could " improve" my look by getting a perm. It dawns on me that he thinks I'm pretty but maybe not up to scratch according to his standards. I could be better. I admit I'm not a natural hair guru, but my hair is never untidy or dirty. As any girl I make sure I look my best in front of him. When he sees me, im pretty. Here, in a situation where my blackness is not offensive and weight is not a problem, suddenly my hair is a threat.
Can I never win in this world?
It dawns on me that I need to be the correct pigment and portion and be permed to be pretty in this world and quite frankly I'm tired of all these external stimulators. I am not an island, I would like to be accepted no more that everyone else does. But why does my appearance offend people so much? Why can't they see the beauty that I see in myself everyday?
I can't speak for all black men, I don't know all of them. I just know that those are the ones in my society and those are the ones available for women in my society and of course straight women will feel pressure to appeal to them. Myself included. But if their idea of beauty is warped then we still have a long way to go, especially when raising kids. We're heading towards that age, some already there.
I'll keep my natural hair and I'll be the triple threat: black, fat and natural. I can handle it. What I can't handle is being something I am not.
