The first time I smelled the smoke it caught me off guard. The tainted air was slowly
filling up my lungs, and I began to cough aggressively as a result of it. No one came to my
rescue, so I suffered in silence as the light burns made their way to my ear. Five hours later, I
was freed from the bondage of the room, but when I came out, I was unrecognizable. This is a
story that is well-known to many black girls around the world; this is the story of the first time I
got my hair straightened. Although it was a tedious journey, with intense detangling and
uncomfortable heat, I underwent it to look “beautiful.” But this definition of beauty always
seemed strange to me. In elementary school, most of the television shows and commercials that I
saw had black female actresses with long, straight hair. My hair was pretty long, but my mom
never really urged me to straighten it because she too had natural hair, in the form of locks.
However, I wanted to look like my peers and my favorite actresses on television so I begged my
mother to get my hair straightened for my fifth-grade graduation, and I became hooked all
throughout middle school.
One definition of language is “a system of communication used by a particular
community.” Language is something that can either bind us or separate us from one another. For
a long time, words to describe black women’s natural hair in the workplace were unprofessional,
unkept, dirty, and nappy, to name a few. This type of language demoted our value and caused us
to change our outer appearance to fit in with society. I was a bi-product of this culture, and I subconsciously believed that when my hair was straightened, I was more presentable. The false
teachings regarding the way our hair should look and the overall definition of good hair and bad
hair has created a culture that tells us we will not be accepted unless we resembled the
Europeans.
The hot comb was actually invented by the French as a way to copy the styles of ancient
Egyptians, but Madame C.J. Walker, the first African-American millionaire, transformed and
patented it to better suit the tighter coils that our hair has. Although it was widely supported by
the black community, the notion behind it and the damage it caused to our hair and scalps was
extremely negative. My father, who also had long locks, would come home from work and find
me in the restroom flat ironing my hair. He would make jokes like, “Who’s barbecuing?” and
then he eventually got serious and asked me why I felt the need to straighten my beautiful curls. I
would always shrug him off and continue to improperly apply heat to it. I lost so much hair in the
process, and I even inflicted minor burns that left scabs. My length soon went from the middle of
my back to just at my shoulders. I learned that in order for me to grow my hair back healthily, I
would have to start fresh. I knew I would have to find a different way to do my hair, and I
needed to learn a different language, one that did not equate my natural hair to something of
lesser value.
Although it uses some of the same words as the English language, the natural hair
language is a substantive system of communication for males and females in the black
community. The more elementary definition of natural hair is hair that has not been processed by
any chemical straighteners, such as perms or relaxers. The website “Hype Hair” did a great job at
the listing and defining of some of the common words, phrases, and terminology used in this hair language. It all starts with putting a description on your hair type. The common system used to
describe our hair type from loose waves to tight curls was created by Oprah Winfrey’s hair
stylist, Andre Walker. It is formally named the ‘Hair Typing System.’ When I began on the
journey of restoring my hair, I had to do something known as the Big Chop, which is essentially
cutting off your relaxed hair. I remember sitting in the salon and watching roughly five inches of
my damaged hair fall to the floor like the leaves of autumn. It had to be done so that I could
figure out what my original hair type truly was. Over a couple of months, I was reintroduced to
my 4c hair, which is tighter, coiled hair, and I experimented with different hair products to create
styles that would promote healthy hair growth. As I slowly weaned myself off of the flat-iron, I
had begun to see the beauty in my curls.
The beauty of a black woman’s hair is all in its versatility. In high school, some days I
would come to class with my hair straightened. Other days it would be in a protective style, such
as box braids, and because I attended a predominantly white school, it would always fascinate
my peers and teachers. I would get remarks such as, “Wow, did your hair grow!” or “Can I touch
it?” The answer to both of these questions would be ‘no’ but I realized that I had to be
comfortable with verbalizing my different styles because many of the individuals inquiring about
my luscious curls were not exposed to them before they met me. I had to use the language that I
learned in middle school to tell my story. I had to sit in front of the mirror and believe that the
plot was beautiful, not because of the style of my hair but because of the content of my character.
Nevertheless, as long as it is still growing out of my head, I have to appreciate that there is
energy in my coils; I finally found pride in my African roots.                                                                                                              By Destini Best.