Don’t need a trip to the beauty shop. ‘Cause I love what I got on top. It’s curly and it’s brown and it’s right up there! You know what I love? That’s right, my hair! I really love my hair!
Daija is spending the week with Biker Grandma & Grandpa… this is the hairstyle she went with. From what I hear, it’s holding up really well and has been very popular around town. We’ll see how it looks when I pick her up on Saturday! Fingers crossed… you know we’ve had trouble when Daija went to visit family in years past!
I need to find the charger for the digital camera so I can get a better video, but this is how we refresh our Doodles (check out the curly hair page for more pics & details) in the mornings.
Crazy Hair Day
written by Love Isn’t Enough contributor Catherine Anderson
originally published in Hip Mama Magazine (Issue 44-Creativity Issue-October 2009)
as this week’s Friday activity
(last week was a picture of your pet,
the week prior a souvenir…)
you, the mother of the only
in the preschool class
has the right to
your approach. Do you comment,
suggest an alternative,
each of the above
in three second
on the combination
you are most familiar with:
adapt and educate When your son’s hair
does not invite
barrettes, gel, or braids
you have reason to consider
the value of
crazy hair day. On the Thursday before
you mention to the teacher in your most
and cautiously insistent
voice that it would be appreciated if the class
could consider options for all kinds of hair
for success tomorrow.
Excuse me?Well, crazy hair day can be a little
complicated for tight curly hair
like his. A flash of realization washes over her face. Oh my, I hadn’t considered.. It’s fine.
We’ll figure it out.
They have hair sprays
you tell her, in pink and blue.. Your scour the shelves of the drug store
and explain to the manager
wearing the toupee
45 minutes later
as the groceries melt in the trunk
you find it,
the perfect solution
tucked behind the blush
and the tanning cream *** Three days later and Sam still has
silver sparkle intergalactic eyeshadow
in his hair-
Star Wars pilot Darth Vader
stripes. It was a huge success.
and lasted longer then the braids,
the gel, the rubber bands and
all the other
Caucasian hair accouterments. Crazy.
So today could probably be considered a “co-parenting fail”
I went to the airport to pick up the girls and their dad. I saw my baby girl’s head and just LOST IT. Halle’s hair was cornrowed neatly, and Daija looked like Orphan Annie on a bad day. From what I can gather, by the time anybody bothered with her hair, it was so matted & tangled she cried when they tried to comb it… which means they tried to comb it dry.
Oh, I was so mad. I lit into What’s His Name with a vengeance… and pointed out that Daija had spent a week with my stepmom and a week with my sister over the summer & didn’t come home looking like this… AND THEY’RE WHITE PEOPLE… as in DAY-GLO ANGLO. People don’t come much whiter.
I washed, conditioned it twice, then left conditioner on in a cap for 2+ hours, then conditioned it again… and still had to cut a couple matts out of her hair. I’ve never had to do that with either of the girls before… I think I cried more than Daija did while I was combing this mess out.
I found the process of styling my black daughter’s hair profoundly humbling.
“I am not my hair. I am not this skin.” India Arie
It is not that I am bad at it, I am actually pretty good to be honest. Each Sunday, I receive the highest praise possible for my efforts from the people who should know: African American women. Still, each time I pick up the comb and place my hands on one of my daughters’ heads I feel a little nervous.
“What if I don’t do a good job? What if my baby is ashamed of her white mother’s creation?”
Because I know hair matters.
It matters because it is such a definitive expression of the African race and all their descendants scattered by the diaspora across the globe. It is both the pride of heritage and so often the focal point of the pain of discrimination. It is at once a deep heart’s cry to be validated as the unique creation of God but at the same time to not be defined by any one characteristic of one’s race.
It matters because as a white family, we had a choice to make when we brought these Haitian daughters home. Would we strip them of their culture and force them into our white world, or would we lay aside our own and meet them there. Black, white, Haitian, and American. Descendants of the oppressed and descendants of the oppressor woven into a family.
And a white mother with a cornrow in her hand.