Thinking Kinky : The Nappy Haired Diva

Funny that I created this blog years ago in effort to draw positive attention to what so many others were scorning at the time; natural hair. I used to be a natural hair stylist and I met so many women who were either afraid to "go natural" or were struggling to stay natural. Seldom did I meet someone who was content and simply needed styling services. I won't say that learning navigate an entirely new hair texture doesn't come with it's fair share of challenges. I will say that so many of us don't want to deal with our hair once it's restored to its original texture. I have to admit that I have been one of the women that I used to tsk at years ago. I always have in hair extensions by way of weave, braids or crocheted something. I say that I am doing a protective style which is sometimes true but most times I am just trying not to do my hair at all. I don't want to bother to manipulate my hair into elaborate twist outs and take time to do intricat...

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...