portrait of a 'bad hair day'
poetic take on texturism
She sits me down and watches me, hair pressed for the colder seasons. The roots play a disguise tonight. They’re masking their true texture in a way that is palatable. That can be conceived by all eyes and accepted. Including in hers. The Black woman. You know her. Her skin could be the same, lighter or darker than me. You know her. She calls her son a carpet head. Pot calling the kettle black. We have the same head. Wooly. Wooly as Nina Simone. But you can’t put your chin up to this. In any other place, this is ridiculous. The hairs on the head. Neutral. Yet there is a ‘bad hair day’. A ‘bad hair life’. What happened to the quality of the hair relying on its longevity? Long or short, a head thriving is not balding. A thriving head is here. Wooly and here. She is blind to the success on her scalp because she thinks she can tame it. But can she be tamed? When the moment comes to speak, she is a tiger. She dances with all her body. There is flesh to shake and vibrant behaviour to spill. Yet her hair must be tame? Domesticated? She is surprised when I tell her my hair has always been wooly. Despite chemicals over the years, you cannot shear its nature down. I just like a different look sometimes. I like to experiment its limits. But it’s there. She doesn’t believe me. A head untamed does not seem like me - I’m quiet where I can be loud, talk when I can shout. But I still shout. I’m still loud. The choice does not set me free from the fire. I am a tiger, just as she is. My wool is not tamed, but versatile. Her wool is the same, if she’ll let it. I can’t blame her for thinking differently. Even braids are not the same kind of upfront. They are not telling you ‘this is me’ every time. Natural forces vulnerability. It forces straightforward, no bullshit stances. I hope to grow it and nurture it further. I still need to work on believing I am not having a bad hair day.
-Halle
