What Would You Wear: Part two of 'I am not my hair, and neither are you'

This is part two of this column. Read part one here. 

For centuries, American society has degraded African-American hair types; today, however, there’s a vast and lucrative market for black hair care. In the “Good Hair” survey conducted last August by Perception Institute, black women reported spending more money on hair care and more time at hair appointments than white women. The survey also revealed that black women feel higher levels of anxiety about their hair which, recalling the history of black hair in American culture, makes complete sense.

The cultural history of afro-hair is so complex, I can’t begin to tackle it in this piece. There are multiple books written on the issue, which dates way further back than my existence. To say the least, the subject of black hair has been a source of division in our culture for decades, even within the black community.

My mother persisted and I eventually agreed to try her idea. Honestly, I was afraid. I really didn’t know how to care for my hair and was worried I wouldn’t even be capable. But, as soon as my mom finished washing the itchy chemicals out of my hair, I regretted my decision.

My hair was straight and I could run a comb through it without consequence, which was nice, but it wasn’t my hair. The real problem, however, was neither mom nor the relaxer; it was me. 

I had spent so much time watching natural hair vloggers on YouTube, learning about different textures and styling techniques. The more I learned, the closer I felt to my natural curl pattern. I didn’t want to change it; I wanted to nurture it.

A few months later, I cut my hair down to the roots, leaving just a tiny afro. I washed it, rubbed my hands over my skull — my hair had never been so short in my life. But since that day, I’ve been committed to growing with my hair, learning as much as I can and keeping my hair healthy. My experiences have greatly influenced who I am, but I’ve shared my story to help illustrate a larger reality.

The choices we make to care for our hair are a bigger deal than anyone might expect. There are techniques used to keep afro-hair detangled and neat, like cornrows and french braids. There are protective styles for restoring damaged hair like hair weaves and, of course, braids again.

The versatility in styling options today, the ability and freedom to wear almost any length, color or texture, is a result of innovations which black women popularized and from which all women benefit. But these styles aren’t just styles. For a lot of black people and particularly black women, hair is personal. Wearing an “afro” could be a style for some, but for me, it’s my normal — the way my hair looks when I drag myself to class in my pajamas. And in today’s “more accepting” society, afros are the style. But for black women, who have tried for decades to assimilate to Western beauty ideals, it hurts to see someone else wear the hair we’ve been expected to get rid of.

A lack of understanding about afro-hair can lead to accidental offenses, like a professional photo shoot for Vogue Italia or a racist casting call for models.

Two years ago, Angolan supermodel Maria Borges walked the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show sporting her short, natural afro. She was the first to break the show’s norms with her TWA (teeny-weeny afro), and inspired another bold move: the next year, every model in the VSFS was encouraged to wear their own styles and natural textures. In less than a year, one model’s courage to be herself was able to light up a doorway of opportunity for others to follow her. Still, these progressive strides made in the public eye are baby steps in comparison to the real jumps we are going to have to make in this society before change really settles in.

Despite an influx of black-owned competitors, the majority of the brands and companies in the black hair industry are owned by people of other races and ethnicities. Al Sharpton addressed this phenomenon in Chris Rock’s 2009 documentary Good Hair saying, “If we can’t control what nobody uses but us; that is real economic retardation.” In short, the people who profit the most from the business of “fixing” black hair are people who have no motivation to understand or accept it in the first place. Though the natural hair movement and the rapid increase in demand for natural hair care products have yielded results, many of these products are being sold by the same companies who, not long ago, were selling relaxers and hair pomades to the same women purchasing their new line of “moisture-rich” products.

My own careful appraisal of the current social climate does bring me comfort. Another key finding of the Good Hair survey: a strong implicit bias against afro-textured hair was found, to some degree, in nearly all participants. The data is, if nothing else, evidence of the learned biases we have each had bestowed upon us concerning not just black hair, but other prejudices as well. Since when is it OK to make a fortune off of people who, you know, believe they need your products just so they can look more like you? How can black hair be fully embraced and accepted if it’s treated as either a problem or a trendy accessory? Maybe I am far too sensitive, but personally, I don’t quite feel totally accepted yet.

Kayla Beard is a senior studying journalism with a focus in web design at Ohio University. Please note that the views and opinions of the columnists do not reflect those of The Post. Do you have afro hair? Let Kayla know by tweeting her @QKayK.