Thinking Kinky : The Nappy Haired Diva

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...

Okay, So I changed my Blog Title to Thinking Kinky: The Nappy Haired Diva. Why? Because I want to do away with the stigma of being nappy. I have locs in my hair. Locs in my opinion are nothing but long naps or tangles that are groomed into individual "locs" of hair. When I was a kid, I hated when someone told me my hair was nappy. I wanted sleek smooth hair like my barbies and instead I had wavy kinks all over my head. Now as an adult with locs, I have some friends that miss my permed tresses and other's who are madly in love with my auburn locs. The thing is, I really don't care how I wear my hair. My priority is for it to look GOOD. I had a friend who lost all of her hair going through chemotherapy after a diagnosis of leukemia. She wore her short and curly crop with grace and dignity and looked no less beautiful than she was with her thick almost waist long mane of hair. It was at that time that I had to wonder how I would have fared in such a situation. She never ...

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...