Growing up, I really didn’t understand my hair. My friends comparably had straight hair and I was one of the very few with hair that got bigger if you brushed it, played outside.... or even looked at it. My mother attempted to style it by blow drying it straight as a young child. This just resulted in one big 80s style poof. Then in middle and high school, I just solved that problem by sleeking baby oil in my mane and slicking it up in the tightest, wettest sloppy bun a 90s teen could muster.
Conversely, people loved my curls. Friends would try to convince me to let it down. They would twirl my trendles in class and ask to play with my hair during sleepovers. Parents would notice the color and body in the grocery store or as I readjusted it between sports events. These little moments became the foundation of my new relationship with my hair.
I wasn’t unlucky to have curly hair. It was just a fact, I had curly hair. People loved it. People would tell me, "people spend big money to have hair like that." I was introduced to ethnic hair products. The baby oil went out and all of the amazing shea, cocounut and argon smelling products filled my bathroom cabinet. After some trial, error and education, I learned I had 2c/3a curls and I could celebrate them as oppose to being a victim to them. I established a routine and led through adulthood proud of my curls. I married another curly and that solidified it. My children would also have curly hair and I was on a mission that they would love it!
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My son has the most amazing hair. Its alive. Its vibrant. Its soft and cuddles back with you. If you pull it, it bounces. We like to play the boing game. Everywhere we wonder in this world, people stop to admire his hair. Passer byers will rub a "that-a-boy" tousle in his curls. Its like watching what happened in my childhood x 100000.
"I love his curls."
"Look at those curlies"
"Que Chino."
He is growing up so proud of his curls. He loves them too. I like the comments. I like the hair love. The questions.
"How do you get his hair like that."
"What do you put in it?"
"Is it hard to brush?"
It feels like an innocent curiosity. An opportunity to educate on curly hair and help bridge gaps.
We also live in a city that is predominantly Mexican American. It is perfectly normal here for random strangers to come up and touch or rub your child or baby real quick. This enhances the number of hair tousles my children get. Its cultural to touch what you love or are envious of in order to protect it. Its a tradition/superstition known as Mal de Ojo.
Conversely, I understand intellectually the layers of history behind African American hair considerations. The pain of perpetuated biases, gawking, jokes, stereotyping, microaggression and minimalization of the African American experience. I understand that it is not culturally appropriate to touch an African American’s hair without first asking permission.... and you better be fairly secure in that relationship. That is not a question for bystanders. I get that this is also the cultural context for my son’s hair.
I am not black and can therefore have no expertise on the black experience. But I am raising black children who are also reflections of me and my experiences. It interesting to balance all of these factors. As a result, my approach to my son’s hair and my boundaries with that are likely different than if he was raised by purely black parents. I may have more to learn here or maybe this is the note to hit considering this beautiful hybrid of experience; meanwhile, I just want my children to be proud, confident and kind people. My son is proud of his curls and that fills my heart. My girls are still developing their hair textures and with that we will eventually be able to honor a household of five different types of curls and all of the beauty they possess.
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| Photo by Madeline Richards |
