I truly look at edges and natural hairstyles like dudes look at booties. I just took off my sunglasses and rolled down the window for a braided bun.
—my Twitter
SO, AFTER READING THOSE COMMENTS about my brown/blonde braids, I flew into a fit of rage and pulled them out. I’ll deal with my anger issues later. I found someone to come to my house to give me black braids to match my natural color in time for some Washington, D.C., events a few days away. But in the meantime, I had to go buy the new hair, run to two appointments, and get to CVS. I was on my way to my closet for scarves or a hat to cover my real hair before heading out for my errands when I passed by my mirror and saw my reflection. My natural hair was unkempt, all over the place, and beautiful. Today’s the day, I thought. Today’s the day for an Afro. Maybe it was because I knew that later that day my hair would be in braids so no one would have time to hate my Afro and comment on how terrible it was. Maybe I was sick of thinking about the comments. Maybe I’d spent entirely too much time worrying about what other people think about the hair that grows out of my head. Maybe after years of braids turning into dreads, perms making it fall out, bleach, peroxide, chlorine, and my pigeonholing it into the same weaved style, my hair deserved to live freely! I combed my hair up and out, and put a headband on. Then I left the house.
Part of me felt exposed. Like I wasn’t wearing any clothes. Another part of me felt free and confident. Like I wasn’t wearing any clothes, but I had great tits and a rocking ass. I felt great! More confident than fearful. No one was pointing and laughing! There were no boos coming from anyone I saw that day. No one said anything at all. By the time I got home, I was feeling pretty good about myself. I felt cute and confident and like I’d finally found my way into the Black Woman Hair Universe of Possibilities. Finally! But then I remembered the Internet. Of course no one had said anything nasty about my hair to my face. Of course no one booed me in person. I live in a polite society of people who usually know better than to comment on another person’s appearance to her face. They’d make their comments on the Internet, where they can hide behind their screen names and Twitter handles! If I was really going to wear my Afro proudly, I’d have to post a picture of it to my Instagram account.
I must’ve taken four hundred selfies before finally settling on the perfect picture to upload. Then, just as I began to post it, I deleted it, put on a new lipstick, and took four hundred more selfies. I was nervous. I was thinking too much. I was taking this too seriously. Finally, after psyching myself up, I posted the picture to Instagram, put my phone in my fridge, and walked away from it for a while. An hour later, I went back to the phone to check the damage. People loved my hair! They thought it looked healthy and beautiful. Well, shit. That’s what I thought. As nice as it is to get validation from strangers online, I hated that I needed it. I was proud of my hair before I posted it. Why did I need 7,000 people to like it? The hair belongs to me. It’s my head. I mean, thanks, Instagram fans, but if I don’t like my hair on my own, it’s not worth having in the first place. I had several days before my D.C. events, and in the meantime, I was going to wear the hair I wanted.
Three days later I boarded a plane to Washington to join the Creative Coalition and a group of actors and musicians in lobbying for arts education in schools. We were going to be split up into groups and take meetings at the Senate and White House. I’d been invited by the Hearst Corporation and Cosmopolitan magazine for the following evening to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner.
My hair was braided into a black Senegalese twist. For all of my meetings on Capitol Hill, my hair hung down to my shoulders. I ran my fingers through it whenever I wanted to and tucked it behind my ears. I didn’t think about a frame for my face. I felt pretty and confident. The next night, as I stepped into the Correspondents’ Dinner, it had started to rain, but I didn’t worry about my hair. It wasn’t going to move an inch. It was braided and twisted into a high bun with a gold band around it and hid about three hundred bobby pins. My hair perfectly matched the regalness of my custom-made black and gold ball gown. My hair was perfect. It was exactly what I wanted it to be. I wore my hair like a crown. The little girl I used to be with braids and a baby doll strapped to her back was proud. That same girl who sat on sofa pillows between her mother’s legs enduring the pain of hair tugging and pulling was proud as well. I floated around that party like Cinderella before midnight.