Black Hair on a White Campus

A Black senior’s perspective on her hair experience at SMU

By Jordyn Harrell | Engagement Editor

I finally freed my hair from its three-month sentence in the protective jail of knotless braids, a style where I weave in extensions. I stretched my arms as I waited in line to pick up my package. My muscles were still tender from the restless night I spent unraveling mid-back length braids, detangling my ends and deep conditioning my roots. As I swat away a loose strand from my face, my name is called.

“You cut your hair,” Marc Smith, the manager of the on-campus mail center known for his rusty colored hair and matching mustache, short stature and even shorter temper, said as he slid my Amazon package over the counter. “It looks nice.” My hair hadn’t been cut at all. It hovered right above my shoulders in its natural state: a thick mass of tight coils and curls. A soft thank you slips through my tight-lipped smile.

As I left the counter, I kept my eyes trained on the dingy, dented cardboard box awkwardly resting in my palms instead of making eye contact with the line of students behind me. Each step weighed heavy with annoyance. I didn’t look up until I made it outside. A simple ‘your hair

I should’ve grown used to hearing Smith’s compliment considering the number of times I changed my hair during the two years I worked at the mail center.

But that’s why it bugged me. I worked for him for two years; yet he remains ignorant of the idea that his comments weren’t flattering. I can only say his heart is in the right place so many times before his intentions become invalid by his execution. It takes courage for Black women to proudly be and express themselves in a society where acceptance, beauty standards and laws glorifies whiteness.

Dove’s CROWN (Creating a Respectful and Open World for Natural Hair) Research Studies say discrimination based on hairstyles can start as early as 5 years old. Race-based hair discrimination could be blatant—like almost disqualifying a high school powerlifter from the Mississippi state championship because she wore beads in her hair—or they could be an assumption hidden within a genuine compliment.

I struggled being my full self at Southern Methodist University, a concentrated space of whiteness. I found myself going out of my way to not be seen as an anomaly, especially when it came to my hair. Someone would’ve thought I was smuggling contraband with how I picked up hair supplies from my uncle early Saturday mornings of my junior year. I would peek out the main entrance door of my dorm, with my plaited hair tucked under a black beanie further shielded by the hood of my sweatshirt, and I carefully scanned the parking lot for his car. The ducking and dodging only reinforced the feeling that a curly headed Black girl didn’t belong on a white campus.

So, I stopped hiding. I detangled myself from years’ worth of matted insecurities, and I feel so much lighter. Of course, there are days when those knots reappear. In those moments, I remember the encouragement my mom texted me my first seme ster at SMU after a bad hair day. “Walk in it...Hair is hair,” she said. “You are beautiful in braids. In a ponytail. With a perm. In the natural. With a sew-in. Or with a cap. You are beautiful. Green eggs and ham.” Her words possess just as much truth now as they did then.

On a Friday night, I part my damp hair into sections. I begin to shape my hair – I’m inspired by another natural hair content creator. Half-way done, I smile at myself in the mirror. My comfort starts with me, not you or your compliments.