My hair problem in my Life

“Good hair― that’s the expression. We all know it, begin to hear it when we are small children. When we are sitting in between the legs of our mothers and sisters getting our hair combed. Good hair is not kinky, hair that does not feel like balls of steel wool, hair that does not take hours to comb, hair that does not need tons of grease to untangled, hair that is long” - bell hooks, “From Black is a Woman’s Color” 10 years ago the conversation of natural hair did not exist. The state of hair black people possessed, especially black women, was not about embracing afros or kinky hair. It revolved around flat irons, hot combs, silk presses, and box-kit perms. Many of us black women can almost smell the remnants of our childhood trapped within the jars of hair grease and sulfate ridden shampoos. Every day before walking toward the school. Every week before Sunday services began. And every year before our first day of school. Our self-perception was dependent on how our hair looked. Whether or not we had “good” or “bad” hair. And from a young age, I knew I did not have “good hair”. From the restless sigh that my mother emitted while breaking her back to make my hair representable. To the whispers from hairstylists as they blow dry my hair, then gasp abruptly realizing that my hair was not up to my ears but just shrunk. And the snickers from softer haired girls in the number line that picked at my coarse hair. My hair was either amusement or a mere inconvenience. I felt like a circus freak. I was not alone in this experience. But 10 years ago we didn’t talk about it. A decade later from the last time I remember putting an actual perm in my hair, I find myself slowly embracing my natural hair strands despite society's distaste for it. I also find myself immersed in a culture that instead of obsessing over “good” hair obsesses over “softer” and “curlier” hair. So essentially the same as before only now with different packaging. As a child, I walked past products with someone who looked like me skin wise but had clearly distorted their natural hair’s natural state. Now as an adult, I walk past multiple products that show with a girl with much lighter than me with hair that still does not look like mine. Right now it all seems like a trend but when will my authentic, and natural self be in style? Hair. Defined as any of the numerous fine, usually cylindrical, keratinous filaments growing from the skin of humans and animals. But for women, hair is a symbol. A symbol of beauty and femininity. For many women, like my mother, who choose to cut their hair short are not just making a fashion statement, they inherently are making a political statement. A statement that says “I will not be weighed down by hair strands nor the systematic fetishization of my hair”. A statement that declares their beauty is valid regardless of length. Individuality is their prime focus. Now for girls like me with drier, kinkier, and well just African hair. Our statement is to wear it in its natural state. When I first embarked on my natural hair journey, I had heard it all. My statement was being overlooked and laughed at. How could someone already as dark as I was want to embrace something I had no say in something that looked the way it did. I was told I would bald. It would and did look ugly. I was going to regret it. I don’t yet. The idea that a woman, or someone in general, can not love their hair or their face because of how they style it preposterous. Self-expression is subjective, and I am a firm believer that black women especially, should not be subjected to policing when it comes their self-expression. We should not be called ghetto, ugly, or desperate based on how we present our hair. Historically one of the ways that we are de-humanized and our femininity is invalidated is through the systematic bias our hair received. We have to do everything in our power to look a way we were not created in order to appease Eurocentric standards of beauty. Whether we want to sport a rockin’ lace front or a set of box braids we should be given that autonomy. When did our hair become the dart board for unfair and unrealistic beauty standards? I demand that we regain power of our beauty’s narrative. This includes supporting other women with hair that may not seem “good” to the media but is valid nethertheless. This includes hairstyles that are not all our own. The notion that women want to be someone else because of the hair that they have on top of their head just reinforces harmful beauty standards that serves to create insecurity. The hair we wear from umihair hair extensions wholesaler is both a crown and a symbol of our ancestry. We should wear it in however we shall please, but we must do it proudly. Because if we do not love it for ourselves then we run the risk of the crown being snatched from us in the end. “The thing about black women and black hair is that you just have to experiment.” - Yvonne Orji