Do you have memories of sitting in between your mother’s legs while she parted your hair, oiled your scalp, and styled you up in some plaits and twists, perhaps with pretty clips and bubbles and elastics? Are those memories fond or fearful? For me, they’re all warm and fuzzy. Having my mom wash and braid me up for school was usually something I looked forward to – her hands were gentle, I loved the smell of the African Pride scalp oils she used (remember the yellow ones filled with petroleum and “herbs”?), and we had fun watching TV or talking while she got me ready for the next day of school.
I know that for others, the memories aren’t so sweet. Hair being
scraped back and torn with rough combing, singes from irons used to
“tame” naps, and harsh comments about how
tough, nappy, and
bad one’s
hair was. I’ve seen the after-effects of negative treatment pass down
much more visibly than the positive – mothers who were told their hair
was “bad” have practiced the same with their own children, especially
their daughters. Seeing 4 year olds with relaxed hair makes me sad.
Hearing mothers talk about how terrible their child’s hair is
in front of the child makes
me cringe.
I have heard Black women admit to choosing fathers of
another race in order to ensure that her daughter didn’t have “
nappy-ass hair” like she did. I’ve spoken with White mothers who have children with Black men, but have absolutely
no clue what to do with their baby’s hair.
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