Hi! My Name is Faith Margaret. And I Still Get My Hair "Did!"

You have to pretty much live under a rock to not have read about, talked about or heard about Black women and our hair.  Some of us have embraced and even reclaimed our natural hair and are sure to let everybody know how liberating and healthy this choice is.  Others of us have chosen to continue a long standing tradition of going to "the shop" and having a stylist use heat and hairspray and oil sheen on our hair or hair we have purchased to be added to our hair (still our hair!).  I am standing in solidarity with those of us that still get our hair "did" with a narrative about my love affair with my hair.  Once upon a time, when we were different shades of little brown girls we were introduced to the ritual of getting our hair done.  Only back then we were getting our hair "combed."  This tradition that happens in many black households between Mamas and their baby girls has been going on forever and a day.  It goes a little something like this:

Most Saturday mornings little brown girls all over would be made to stand on the kitchen chair or some other stool and told to bend over the sink to get their hair washed.  Our Mamas would scrub and rinse until they heard that squeaky clean sound while we made sure to keep our eyes closed real tight so shampoo wouldn't seep into them.  Our Mamas would massage sweet smelling conditioner all over our hair, let it sit for a few minutes, rinse it out and towel dry it with a big, fluffy towel.  We would later use that big towel and secure it to our heads to have long flowing hair, but that's another blog for another day. Next our Mamas would have us sit between their legs on a pillow in front of the television with our favorite show playing (Souuuuuul Trainnnn was the show of choice in my home!) while they parted our hair, greased our scalps and neatly brushed our hair up into ponytails and pigtails secured with pretty bows, balls (aka knockers) and barrettes. And last but not least, our Mamas would take special care to create our "baby hair" just right with that special toothbrush used to create the illusion.  Our Mamas would put all the hair products into that cookie tin and store it away until the next morning when the ritual would continue.  

Once we were old enough and only for special occasions (i.e., picture day at school, Easter or our birthdays) we would get your hair "pressed."  Yeah, once our Mamas were done pressing our hair it was a pretty sight to see but the process was torture!  I. Hated. Getting. My. Hair. Pressed.  I would stare at the red hot glowing fire on the stove as I sat on that red 3 step chair/stool combo thingie dreading this ritual.  My Mama would put a glob of Ultra Sheen Hair Grease (the blue kind) on the back of her left hand, put the pressing comb that was dark & worn from heavy use on the fire and get to pressing my hair.  Sizzle.  Blow.  Tap on the towel.  Press.  "Girl, stop flinching & hold yo' damn ear!" she would fuss right after she popped my head with that big black comb.  I just knew she was going to burn me when she would press my "edges" and get my "kitchen!"  I would smack my teeth, slouch in the chair and suffer through it the whole time wishing I was outside playing in the street with my friends.  My Mama was no punk, though and she would just keep right at it despite my crying and slouching and sniffing and it always ended with her turning me around to see my reflection in the mirror and exclaiming, "See!  All that crying for nothing.  Look at my pretty baby!  All done!" to only kiss me on my forehead and shoo me out of her kitchen.  At least that's what happened in my home.

As much as I hated getting my hair done, I so loved that time with my Mama.  It is one of my fondest memories of her.  Just her.  Just me.  Just we.  It was this sacred time between a Mama and her little girl free from the drama that always seemed to circle our home.

I'm in my 40's and to this day I have kept that ritual going.  Only now I go and have my hair professionally styled by the same woman that's been handling my hair for the past 20 years.   Not only am I taking care of myself with this indulgence, I am also supporting a black woman making her way in the world as an entrepreneur. That feels mighty good to me!  Over the years she's counseled me, I've counseled her, we've cried together, cackled together, danced together, shared a cocktail together...all in her little beauty shop.  You see, she comes from the same tradition that I come from and she understands the absolute value a beautician can have in the lives of her clients.  And I am grateful for her "growing hands" and her ability to manage my soft, tissue like hair that reminds me of my Mama every single day. 

It's amazing how versatile we can be as Black women!  We can decide how we want to wear our hair today and change our minds tomorrow.  We can marvel at the discipline and sometimes bravery of our sistah friends that make the choice to banish chemicals and heat from their hair styling rituals and STILL manage to walk with our heads up and shoulders back and freshly coiffed chemically and heat treated hairstyles from the beauty salon.  Since regardless of how we choose to style our hair, we are still keeping with a ritual passed down from generation to generation to generation.  No matter how we wear our hair, we are still showing love to ourselves and love for our culture through the expression of our hair and there is no shame in that!  *patting the sides of my hair & glancing in the mirror*