I am really excited to publish this amazing article by my good friend Jamia Wilson. Jamia is a communications guru with Young People For, who graduated from American University and is currently a grad student at NYU. She’s smart, a great writer, and a feminist! Voila Jamia:

“Boy, you need to know that you better never get between a black woman and her hair appointment.” – Me, to my loving white boyfriend when he wanted to get me to skip an appointment at the salon for an important event.

I owe it to my parents that I have a strong sense of who I am. I remember asking for a Rainbow Brite birthday cake when I was four. My mom had one made for me, but it was made in chocolate. When I asked her why Rainbow Brite was brown, my mom said that she wanted me to know that brown is beautiful too and that Rainbow Brite could be just as cool and cute brown as she was blonde on TV. I didn’t realize it then but my mom was making a statement to me and those attending my party that day. Brown is beautiful, and even if the toy companies won’t acknowledge it, my kid will see images that reflect her family, community, and surroundings in our home. It was so important to my parents for me to see myself as beautiful in a world where media and society often paint those who look like me as ugly caricatures unworthy of love, worthy of only ridicule, laughter, and scorn.

Another memory comes to mind. I remember having my afro puff and crying after some white boys at school were squeezing on my hair and calling me “cotton candy hair.” I laugh thinking about it now, but at the time, I felt pain and anger. I didn’t understand why my hair was considered funny. I cringed when I had to think about swimming at the pool with other kids. I didn’t like having to explain why my hair dried quicker than theirs, why it didn’t lie flat. I yearned for a side pony tail that would just swing and move like Punky Brewster. I didn’t want this big mass that kids made fun of. I wanted to look more like Vanessa Williams than the Jackson 5.

Years went by and I pressed and curled, I got blow outs, I had my hair curled, burned, prodded, and poked. I realized that it would never thrive when I was “faking it” trying to make it do things that didn’t come naturally. It just couldn’t breathe. It became lifeless, smelly with chemicals, and reluctant to growth. For years I worked on the strength to do what I knew I needed to do for years. Let it go. Let my hair free.

I was 15 years old when I stopped the colonization of my hair. I stopped waging war on my hair with strong chemicals that smelled like sulfur and lye. I stopped trying to suppress the cultural kink that connected me with the beginnings of civilization, to hard working sweat, to oppressed tears, to strong joyous beauty, and family. When I stopped straightening my hair, or “relaxing” it like the products the salons use to fry your hair straight like to call i– I liberated myself from conforming to an impossible and oppressive beauty ideal. One day, I just woke up and decided that I couldn’t take it anymore. I knew that I couldn’t deal with another scab on my scalp from a lye induced burn. I couldn’t deal with my hair breaking off thin and fine into clumps on a brush. I knew this addiction wasn’t healthy for hair like mine. It just wanted to be free. It wanted to live. It wanted to be taken off of the starvation diet I put it on and live healthy instead.

It took stages. I first started getting it braided, I tried synthetic weave twists, and I won’t even pretend that I didn’t go through my whole black Baywatch wavy weave ordeal. (My best friend has pictures… and I’ll never vex her so those will never be revealed) I spent hundereds of dollars still, trying to make my hair behave. At this point, I wasn’t burning it or forcing it straight, but it still wasn’t my real hair flowing free. I still needed to evolve to that place where it could grow and live on its own. Free.

About 4 years ago, I finally found the energy I needed to make a move I was thinking about for a long while. I bought several books about dreadlocks, learned the history, and looked at the hair on those around me. Something always attracted me to “locs” because they are free, beautiful and ancient. They are also apparent in so many ancient cultures and present ones. For some, locked hair is divine. Still, I was unsure about such a big move, dealing with the ignorant comments I knew I would get about whether or not my hair was clean, and the “wild” in between stage between starting short locs and the long flowing look.

I’d like to say I had this epiphany that drove me to loc my hair, twisting it and leaving it to its natural state like it is now. No. Something quite trivial set it in motion. When a dysfunctional relationship ended, I thought long and hard about my ex who thought I could “never pull off short hair and dreadlocks.” End quote.

When the new year began after our breakup, I made a resolution to never love those who don’t love me with care and also to love myself and define myself by my terms, never again letting anyone tell me my worth. As a result, I scheduled an appointment. I cut my hair. I started locs and it has been a love affair ever since. I washed that man right out of my hair and gained a consciousness that I hope continues to evolve for years to come. I have never been happier or felt more beautiful than now in my most natural state. I still get my hair maintained professionally but I do nothing to it or use nothing on it that isn’t natural and organic.

When the infamous Don Imus comments came out about the so-called “nappy headed” Rutgers athletes I was outraged for many reasons. One of the reasons was simply because I love looking like me. Who is Don Imus to define what is beautiful? In the words of bellhooks, “I’m happy to be nappy.” I feel no shame about who I am. I feel pride and strength because of my difference and the joy and pain that come with it.

I love that my hair curls, twirls, springs, and shines. I’m glad that it shields me from sun, protects me from rain, and holds the history of a rich past. I like that it can be afro-ed, corn rowed, knotted, blown dry, crinkly, and curly. I love that I can sport a head wrap, pig tail, or puffs with this crown. My hair and I are strong, we will both survive, and through burning, flattening, drying, and bleaching…the ultimate essence will always reappear. The cultural kink will never go away no matter how hard you hide it. I’m so glad I embraced my hair. I’ll never forsake it again.