One of the greatest moments of my life happened while I was shopping in a grocery store. My husband and I were making a date out of running errands and had gone into the store together. While deciding on which bag of tortilla chips to pick up, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that we had a very small audience.
There was a little girl, maybe 7 or 8 years old, staring straight up, eyes locked on my hair. At the time, I’d been growing my first set of dreadlocks for a couple of years, with my sides cut low, like a mohawk. My husband had locs, as well, and once the little girl shifted her gaze another foot upward, she fixated on his naturally gray, black, and white hair with a heavy jaw.
After awhile, she managed to say, “Cool hair,” to which I replied, “Thank you.” The exchange was simple, but for me, the impact was enormous.
Little me saw so much of who I wanted to be in those young women, but their fame and fortune weren’t the draw — it was all about the hair.
Once my husband and I stepped out of the aisle, my face exploded into a smile. He understood the moment without me having to explain it, but here’s why it was such a big deal.
I grew up as the oldest child in a big family with a small income. My mother has always been a hard worker, but feeding and clothing five kids as a young mom is a huge task. I was thankful that we had enough for me to be aware that others had much less, but that didn’t stop me from noticing the attractive clothes and accessories of those who had more money to spend. Instead of pining for what I didn’t own, I became observant of commonalities of people I looked up to when I was an elementary school-aged kid.
In the mid-’90s, there were three famous black women I especially admired for their signature hairstyles: Brandy Norwood, the singer who played the titular character in the TV show Moesha</em>; the ultra-cool, sultry singer Aaliyah Haughton; and Karyn Parsons, who played the curly-headed cousin of The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. Little me saw so much of who I wanted to be in those young women, but their fame and fortune weren’t the draw — it was all about the hair.
Back then, Brandy always rocked stylish braids, Aaliyah was known for wearing her hair over one eye, and Karyn (aka Hilary Banks) wore her natural curl unapologetically. Young girls seem to be drawn to what’s momentarily “the coolest,” and the confidence exuded by my black teen dream team gave them maximum credibility in my book.
I didn’t realize it then, but I now understand the power of representation. I saw myself in the brown facades of these ’90s superstars, and that meant that one day I could attend a college like Moesha or dance as well as Aaliyah. Though Will Smith’s fictional cousin Hilary was a bit of a ditz, she was also the oldest daughter in a family that didn’t have to worry about money. So, it was possible for me to be in that same position.
No matter how much I’ve had in my bank account, my hair has been a constant reminder of my own pricelessness.
Though these women were an inspirational jumping-off point, they were only the beginning of how I would come to view the relationship between success and my own hair. I grew to put special effort and considerable time into sculpting my curls, realizing that, even when money was low, or I didn’t have new shoes and clothes, people paid attention to my hair.
“It’s so thick and pretty!”
“You always have a new style!”
“Where do you get your hair done?”
If I ever revealed that I was the oldest of five, born to an African-American teen mother, people were shocked — all because of the story they’d already written for me based on my presentation. I was proof that poverty didn’t look the way they’d imagined, and I felt regal in representing my community.
Eventually, I came to view my hair as a crown. I learned to tenderly care for each kink and curl so that they looked professionally done. That fostered self-value, which extends to the tip of every strand. No matter how much I’ve had in my bank account, my hair has been a constant reminder of my own pricelessness. Before I step out into the world to hear about how others feel about my ‘do-of-the-day, it’s imperative that I know how I feel about myself first.
Confidence is a powerful force of attraction, capable of garnering admiration from those around you, or confusion. I’ve grown accustomed to absorbing the glances of others, whether it comes from curious passersby who might not be familiar with the versatility of style my culture is capable of, or the attention of a young girl who is captivated by my unique haircut.
Hopefully, in the precious eyes of the little girl who once took notice of me in the snack aisle, I have become like the women I’d once looked up to, wearing my custom loc-hawk like a diamond-encrusted tiara (and just as shiny). I was cool to at least one little girl out there for simply being myself. I hope that one day she continues the cycle.
