'Nappiness' Is A Gift, You Give Yourself

by: Onika Nkrumah

Deciding to wear my hair in all its natural, nappy glory has been a journey that has taken me full circle. Not since I was in nappies have I had the courage to wear my hair nappy!

In the beginning, hesitation dogged my every move.

This transition would have to be made slowly. When I looked in the mirror, would I still be able to appreciate my features? Framed by tight kinks instead of the long, luxurious donkey's mane, I had become accustomed to.

What of the opposite sex. Men liked ladies with long hair, did they not, would my appeal diminish?

And my job…Popular sentiment had it that this hairstyle would certainly meet with censure. Yeah, it was cool for the Others to wear their hair naturally.

Theirs was straight and pliable, it submitted nicely to the comb, it was friendly. Such jolly good hair!

Quite the opposite, mine screamed defiance.  It must have seemed too militant.

Radiating some kind of silent threat to the judgmental eye.

There it stood on end. Dancing off in every which direction.

Tangled. Nappy.

I had to start from scratch.

Like being born again. I had to strip away all the artifice, all the fanciness.

Years of weaving, braiding, frying and dyeing my hair to death had taken its toll.

The notorious thickness had gone.  Hairline receding, broken... defeated.

Dare I expose this weak mane to the public gaze?

It was now or never.

I had to start anew.  Pure.

Fear. That evil spirit squatted in my brain, resisting eviction.

Like a dead man walking, I knew that it was only a matter of time, before my number was up and somebody would take issue with my hair.

The last thing I anticipated

was a 'hairy' confrontation with a supervisor.

"Your hair looks frightening"! 

"What"? I spluttered in disbelief and confusion. 

"You sure you working here"?

If this had been someone of another race, my rejoinder would have been instant and devastating. But this was too surreal. One of my 'own' dared question my right to free myself from this slavery. From the tyranny of the hot comb?!

This must be a joke, albeit not a funny one, I thought. But no such luck.  How to treat with such ignorance, such a betrayal, I wondered?!

Misery loves company, I silently decided, eyeing her played out, drippy jerri curls. Poor thing, still lost in an ‘80s time warp.

"Don't remove the kinks from your hair. Remove them from your brain"!

The words of the honorable Marcus Garvey, brought a conspiratorial smile to my lips. I sauntered away, knowing that I wouldn't let this matter rest. 

Mess with my inalienable civil rights. I'm not having that, mate!

Like a plant showered with love and sunlight, it grew.  Gathering momentum. 

Hairline, though scarred and decimated, recovering from its pain.  

A slow process for sure, but definite signs of more thickness and health.

Glossy. Still sick but on the road to recovery.

All around me I see the same re-awakening.  People more willing than ever to gamble it all, for the sake of au naturel.

This renaissance of Black hair, I wonder. How far is it a deliberate statement of blackness or is it a naif commercial fetishism of the look.

Will it meaningfully inflect upon the consciousness, the politics, the conscience of the people. Only time will tell.

For me, I know what my consciousness has always been.  Even if I did detour from the straight and narrow, for a minute.

Those that do arrive at the decision to go natural do so for different reasons. Undoubtedly, for many it’s a fashion, a passing fad. For others, a lifestyle choice. For me, I suspect this is the last stop. I say that because I know how I arrived here. It was a wholly practical option.  My hair was chemically damaged. For me it was dread or dead.

Making that decision to go natural is a very personal choice. And if you make that choice you find that you develop a new intimacy with your hair.  Like a newborn you cherish and embrace it. You feel pride in each stage of its development.

Suddenly, as the locks grow, you want to shield it from evil, criticizing eyes, 'maljo'! So you wrap it. You begin to see beauty where before you couldn't see past the knots.

You stand admiringly in the mirror, gazing at your crown from all directions.  Like black gold, the knots become precious, so much so that if some dead hair falls from your head, you immediately roll it back in again.

A funny shift in perspective occurs. You begin to contemplate with pity the hair hostages you left behind, as if they were part of some tragic comedy. If everyone could be hair- free, oh what a 'nappy' world it would be!

A common bond is formed.

As other healthy, bouncy dreadlocks go past you in the street, you are mesmerised by such glory.  Nods of acknowledgement exchange. 

"How long yuh growing yuh hair"? "Yuh does put ratchet in it"? "Who does twist your hair"? 

A feeling of goodwill towards other naturalists, ignites.

Whether fashion, fancy or forever. Insofar, as hair is linked to diametrical shifts in attitude and states of mind. I am overjoyed to witness this renaissance of Black pride.

Never mind the naysayers, for they cried down Jesus. Bring the Bantu knots, Afro puffs, cornrows, Picky head and dreads and come...naturally!