Thinking Kinky : The Nappy Haired Diva

30 Days of Natural Hair: Loving Myself As-is (Week 2)  Recently, in utter frustration with my hair I decided to go completely natural. That meant that I wasn't going to do any more protective styles and just wear my hair as-is. One would think this is a simple task but for me, it wasn't. I have been so used to manipulating my natural hair that leaving it be was something that to be quite honest made me feel nervous. As a woman who has been wearing her natural (intermittently) since 2001 when few women were, I have mastered many of the techniques employed within the natural hair community. Twist outs, coils, flat ironing, braids, you name it, I have done it or had it professionally done. The difference in what I  have been doing versus what I've adopted as of late is that I don't do anything with my hair other than comb it, put moisturizer in it and leave for work. Sometimes I blow it out a bit just so it's easier to comb. I just concluded my first week of...

Each time I meet with a client, or go to a job interview I have long straight tresses. They cascade down my back. They float in the wind. They come off at night.  I wear wigs. While I enjoy changing my appearance, I also enjoy donning my natural tresses. The issue? I'm not sure if Corporate America embraces a foot tall afro. My "foxxy cleopatra" can easily be viewed as a "crazy nappy afra" to employers. While this can be a non-issue for some employers, one never knows when hair is an issue. This knowledge serves as the catalyst for a more "corporate appropriate" appearance. It's not worth taking the chance of losing a job opportunity when I can increase my chances by putting on a hairy hat for a few hours. Sometime after I have earned respect and tenure, the wig is retired. I arrive to work with a spongey mass of hair on my head and the comments begin.  I'm flooded with "Oh my God" 's "Can I touch it" 's...

As much as I would love to lie to you and tell you that I have been proudly wearing my hair natural from birth until present, I won't. The truth is that I had been nagging my mother to slather the creamy crack on my hair from about the age of eight. My mother, being a strict West Indian woman who never permed her hair in all of her sixty-plus years refused to oblige my pleas for a relaxer. Instead she would pacify me with blowouts and press and curls. It was never enough. One day of rambunctious play and my curls were no more than fuzzy has-been's, anchored by moist nappy roots, oh, and hair grease. By the time I was in eighth grade my incessant nagging finally paid off and my mother sat me down in the kitchen and applied my first relaxer. To say I was elated would have been an understatement. I felt I was finally going to be able to experience the wind blowing through my hair. I imagined my tresses trailing behind me as I ran about with my friends. The sad realization of bre...