I AM NOT MY HAIR? - CONNECT, A YANASISTERS PUBLICATION

WHIP MY HAIR

BY TANYA POINDEXTER

Last month my granddaughter asked how old I was when I started to do my own hair. Her question took me back to the sound of my mother’s humming — rubber band in her mouth, pink Avon brush in her hand and the warm vibration of her chest as she gathered my curls into a ponytail.

I don’t know when my mother stopped doing my hair, but I remember when it became a problem. I was a middle school girl whose move from Catholic to public school changed the texture of my hair from neutral to decidedly unsafe because I had what other people called: “good hair.”

The first time someone told me I had “good hair” I was confused. Compared to the people I grew up with, it felt mildly ridiculous. But suddenly, a term I didn’t understand, and had never used, became a defining characteristic! And any touching, shaking or movement to adjust my “goodness” was met with the accusation: “she thinks she’s all that.” As any girl from Queens will tell you, this meant I had to accept relentless taunts or learn how to fight. I chose the latter.

While the worst of the bullying stopped after I beat up the toughest girl in class, the sideways looks, snide comments and jealous resentment continued well beyond middle school. This was something I couldn’t fight. So instead, I learned to hide — becoming hyper conscious of what I was projecting; taking great pains to avoid making anyone believe I thought I was special. My heart breaks when I think of my 12 year-old self, and how her choice to dim her own light became a habit that would last another 30 years.

Despite my efforts to avoid attracting attention, I still wanted to look good. The problem was, I didn’t really know how to do my hair. My hair was thicker and far more frizzy than my mother’s, so following her wash-and-set home regimen usually resulted in being compared to Chaka Khan (and not in a good way). My hair was also too soft for braids on either natural hair or with extensions, which tended to slip off a week after they were done. In the era before YouTube tutorials, my options were few.

That didn’t stop me from trying. One summer’s experiment involved letting a friend cut bangs into my hair (leaving me with a frizzy pouf that didn’t grow out until the fall). Another was asking my best friend’s sister to give me a Jheri curl. Something I imagined allowing me to maintain my “just showered” head of curls, but turned into a thick, dripping mess you could smell, long before you saw it.

My hair had a lot of bad summers.

MY HEART BREAKS WHEN I THINK OF MY 12 YEAR-OLD SELF, AND HOW HER CHOICE TO DIM HER OWN LIGHT BECAME A HABIT THAT WOULD LAST ANOTHER 30 YEARS.

As I grew older, I convinced myself that focusing on my hair (or any other aspect of beauty) was “fluffy,” and educated, workminded women did not waste time in front of a mirror. But despite now earning enough for proper hair care, I still found it hard to wear my beautiful hair boldly. My inner 12 year-old became a self-deprecating adult, adept at diffusing both real and imagined jealousy of women with hair different than mine. The more mature me learned to avoid men who seemed more enamored of my skin color and “good hair” than me as a person. That was until I met a man who loved my natural, curly hair even more than the “flat ironed” version and encouraged me to step out of my corporate habits and have more fun with my hair. In fact, it’s his love of all the natural parts of me that helped me begin to heal from my middle school wounds and discover what it felt like to shine.

So it was in my mid-forties that I started to experiment with my hair — completely tickled with some of the natural, curly things it could do.

This was also a journey of acceptance as I stopped trying to adopt styles of black or white women that were just never gonna work for me. As my confidence grew, so did my interest in other aspects of beauty. My lip colors became brighter, my clothes less corporate and I even used a weave to transform my long black hair into a short, brown-blonde-beachy style, which made me feel fabulous!

This journey has been hard, and the habit of beauty is still not second nature. It’s still far easier to make a presentation to senior leaders than it is blow-dry my own hair! But practice has been its own reward. For example, in addition to learning that flipping my hair is all kinds of flirty fun; I know that I’m the only one who controls my shine! I also know that the effort I put

into noticing and nurturing and enhancing my beauty is part of how I love myself. It’s something no one else can do.

One day, I’ll share this story with my granddaughter, Jordyn. But until then, I will stay connected to her sweet spirit, inspecting it for damage and helping her mother give her the courage and means to define her beauty on her own terms. I will continue to enjoy being the GiGi who did her first watermelon face mask, who adds a touch of sparkle on her eyelids on special occasions, and takes her to stylists who know how to cut her hair.

For now, when Jordyn asks me when I started to do my own hair, I just smile and say, “It took me a while.”