Hair Power - Skin Revolution

A collection of poems and personal essays by Black and Mixed-Race women

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• Publisher: Matador
• Year: 2010
• ISBN:
  9781848769823
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Poetry
• Index: Literature

Hair Power - Skin Revolution is a collection of poetry and personal essays from a diverse group of black and mixed-race women - everyday women expressing themselves in their own unique style. The collection includes contributions from forty-eight authors, that explore the issues, interests, cultural and historical influences that have shaped their times and their imaginations. The writers offer empowering and creative ways of understanding and relating to the themes of hair and skin. They tell their narratives, presenting their views in passionate, intelligent, humorous, strong and reflective voices, some unheard; some previously published in the former two Shangwe anthologies. This third Shangwe anthology, by nature of its cultural diversity components successfully contributes towards representing and promoting the writing of women from African and African-Caribbean backgrounds. As well as being a contribution towards Black British literature, this anthology celebrates, reflects upon and embraces our diverse female identities and the common-thread that unites us living the UK experience.

HAIR STORIES

GROWING ROOTS

Patsy Antoine

I hated my roots. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I did. Hated the kinky life they had of their own; the thick 'unmanageable' new growth; the bushy clumps that contrasted so dramatically with its straighter ends. You see straight was in. Nappy heads were out. So I'd willingly grown into despising my kink and convinced myself I was acceptable only if I mirrored the 'dream' – billboard images that left no room for tightly wound curls or afro textures. I was already some way along my journey to the 'straight side'. But maintaining it wasn't easy. The hot comb had singed my ears. The relaxers burnt my scalp. But it was a small price to pay when my hair, pressed or chemically straightened, fell in thick waves around my face. When it settled around my shoulders and moved fluidly like long grass in the wind.

But then came the steam treatments, and six-weekly visits to stamp out those 'unsavoury' roots. "Don't tong too regularly", "Avoid too much heat". But with a thick and luscious head of straight hair I was invincible. What could a little heat do? So, I tonged and blow dried, pressed and hot combed. Avoid heat? Fat chance. It was too much to ask of anyone, much less me whose tomboy tendencies could barely manage the extra care needed to maintain my 'do'.

Inevitably, it wasn't long before those gloriously straight tresses became wispy and weak, before the dream became a nightmare and my visits to the hairdresser became few and far between. So, I cut my hair short. Boy short. Cut out the relaxers, the leisure curl perm. Suddenly, roots that were unmanageable and unsightly became healthy and shiny.

Suddenly, I realised that my hair looked unhealthy, not because of my roots, but because of its chemically weakened ends. I was a 'natural' and as my hair grew back I embraced my 'fro, two-strand twists, single plaits and cane rows. For the first time in my adult life, I enjoyed my hair. No, I lie. I loved my hair.

I didn't realise it at the time, but I was already contemplating locks. It starts so deep within, you're unaware it's there. It simmers gently on a low heat; splattering you with blobs of comprehension until eventually it bubbles to the surface and overtakes you. I started mine with a head full of china bumps. Leaving the salon that day I have never felt so powerful.

Nine years on I understand that my hair is so much more than decorative; it is the very thing that connects me to who I am. By embracing my roots I grow another set of roots into my history, my culture. I now realise that my hair carries the energy of my ancestors, it curls with life and vibrancy and its kink reflects the spring in my contented step.

HEAR MY LIFETIME HAIR JOURNEY

Nehanda Buchanan

I was born with a head free of chemicals, combs and conditioners; my hair naturally curled into a beautiful black shiny covering. It soon became pomades, hot combs warmed by the paraffin heater to remove all trace of its naturalness. My mother wanted a style that would curb an unruly mess. I would endure the burnt ears to have a creation that I could comb and flick through, much like my blond and brunette peers, fear of rain and water entering my recreational swim ruining its slick condition. Then like the sunrise, the seventies arrived and a woman across the Atlantic revolutionised mine and so many sisters' crown and glory to create another story. We walked with pride as our hot combs were binned and replaced with combs of red green and black plastic and metal teeth, wooden crafted creations' artistry that remained a lasting legacy of freedom and liberation. My awakening journey truly began. Thank you Angela. Bonding with my sister sibling, a natural born stylist, beautiful adornments of rows of plaits, sometimes braided or lengthened with extensions of synthetic that looked like my own and lasting for months, would be removed as it started to take a journey of its own.

I loved the attention received of gasping admiration for these unique and expressive twists. Travelling to Africa's continent in Senegal, the plaits were developed further into the crème de la crème of my hair expression; microscopic detail with shells, beads and coins to add the final touch – truly an African queen connected to a family left unintentionally hundreds of years ago. Welcome home child.

My daughters arriving showed me some new and original styles of their own.

The scissors intercepted throughout this journey at significant times. Sitting in a barber's chair I would receive from my opposite gender a quizzical and discomforting stare; what was my sister doing in here?

My shaven head the final result would then be coloured in coppers and reds and the comb replaced with a soft brush – complete ease and ready to please. Hairdressers completely redundant with me, why no perm, no tongs, no weave No, No, No……..

Here we are now, my hair locked in a style deemed wayward, condemned, scorned and even criminalised in an island that waves its flag of Yellow, Green and Black. Oh their wearer's received such hatred and flack. These beautiful knots completely freed me of combs and are replaced with fingers that manoeuvre every single strand within a god blessed locktitians hand. My shaved coloured head of five years ago now sits on my shoulder, carrying with it my stories of life changes, none more significant than the loss of the man, my father that assisted in my creation but also the glory of seeing my eldest and only son's graduation.

My adornment now covers the aids that assist my diminished hearing; vanity. Practicality or pride, my hair and its life journey continues with ultimate love and growth within and outside.

THE EVOLUTION OF MY HAIR

Monique Campbell

From plaits to cane rows to braids to hair-relaxers and then on to weaves – the journey of my hair seems never ending. Back in the day, prior to teeny-bop-hood, during the latter years of primary school when innocence still reigned upon me, having my hair divided in two to four sections used to be the 'lick'…well so my mother thought. I had long tresses of thick stranded semi-kinky hair that was marble-black and could locs with ease, which my mother found hard to manage. These two and foursectioned partings of my hair where the tresses hung limp in my mother's hands and then transfixed into two or four plaits, were the repercussions of lacking time. And so I continued my primary school years with an inclination to learn how to groom my hair.

Teeny-bop-hood was infested with cravings for change: experimentation took centre-stage. I cane-rowed my hair backwards, frontwards, zigzags incorporated shapes that seemed for paper alone. I braided my hair thin, fat, with synthetic extensions, human extensions, no extensions. I cried experimentation, enjoyed the attention so much so that I dyed half my hair! The colour of the sun as it set upon the hilltop in Sunset Beach, still possessing my inherited frizz that Dax often shocked into waves.

My hair, I thought, was the coolest. Even when weave interfered with my natural long mane, luring me in with the prospect of wispy feathery European hair that moved airily in the wind and brushed across one's face, I thought I looked the coolest. I was edgy, had those funky cuts set on trend just like those commercial magazines displayed, except most of them did not reflect me. My decision to relax my hair was because I wanted to adopt this look permanently. Have my hair blowing in the wind as it did with the weave, but permanently.

With adulthood came again a time for change. I started to establish my identity, accept the things that made me, me. There were various contributing factors that drove me to my decision for this new type of change. One being that my hair was damaged and had lost its good quality and volume, the other being acceptance; the ability to accept the order and aesthetics of life, no matter which hand got dealt: dark-skin, light-skin, long-hair, short-hair, broadnose, thin-nose, straight-hair or afro-hair. Ageing is unstoppable as are the seasons that follow one another, unfaltering in their existence.

I currently stand at a cross-road between principles and the dictatorship of time. At the age of 26 with seven willing years of strenuous management and gregarious results of natural hair under my belt, I am contemplating texturising. Not because I want to aspire to look like someone else or I'm unable to accept the natural conditions of my hair, but because I'm unable to provide my hair with the time it needs.

No longer do I have those spare 4-6 hours to wash, condition and twist my hair every two-weeks so that it looks presentable. My hair comes down to the centre of my back, can easily make three sets of heads and has curls that locs with ease. So my question is this: do I pander to my principles of acceptance? Or do I bow down to the dictatorship of time and put a solution in my hair that will merely loosen the curls and make it easier to manage whilst keeping the natural look (as put by my hairdresser From the Roots)?

LIFETIME OF HAIR

Christine Collymore

Part One

As a child, my hair was mine but not under my control. I have pictures of me with an inch of afro, then hair straight with big ribbons. As long as I can remember, my hair has always been short, thick, and kinky. 'The hair hard'; 'Why you don't have pretty hair'; 'Oh gosh, you break another comb', were phrases that were trotted out every now and then. There were no positive comments, considering it was supposed to be my crowning glory. So I always saw my hair as a problem, something that had to be 'managed'. And managed it was, by the use of the hot comb. Then my hair became longer, less coarse and easy to put into a ponytail. I could have hairstyles like my school friends…

Part Two

…Now I have control of my hair and mind. And, yes, I went through the journey of continuing to 'manage' my hair with the use of chemicals, relaxers and curly perms. At the time, it didn't matter about the damage I was doing to my scalp; after all, 'no beauty without pain'. The phrases of 'nappy hair', 'It is a pity that you don't have good hair', still haunt and anger me.

I have learnt that I can undo the socialisation, which has affected my attitude and thoughts about my natural hair. I have experimented with twists, cornrows and my favourite, my afro. It is my crowning glory and I feel that I no longer have to look European to be proud of myself. In fact, I feel like a beautiful black woman of African and Caribbean descent living in England. What I love about my hair is the ability to be creative and be individual. What is it about the desire to touch an afro, got one message for you, look but don't touch?

I would consider locs, but I think that will be a story for part three.

MY JOURNEY….TO ME

Anduosjahla James-Wheatle

Reflection

It's a Sunday morning and my mother is greasing and combing my hair, one plait at the front, and two bunches at the back. Any distasteful noises which I made were met with extra tugging on the hair or a chop on my greased head with the comb!!! There was no scope to make demands on how I wanted my hair to be styled, it was washed, greased and styled to my mother's specification. My father was a Rastafarian, and I know that he had explored the idea of me also growing locks, however he came up against some resistance from my mother. Given that I was an unconventional teenager who questioned 'why', albeit in a polite and respectful way, I developed a strong sense of affinity with feminism. I expressed a desire to grow locks; however my mother's response remained identical and consistent, with the response my father had received several years before. The seed is planted…

Experimentation As I progressed through the experimental processes during my teenage years, I felt a great sense of relief when I finally obtained my mother's permission, to relax my hair. I

thought this would be easier to maintain, grow longer, flow freely and be socially acceptable, which was a classic expectation at that age. To some extent it was easier to maintain, but the need for length and flow in a vertical direction were realistically unobtainable.

The experiment began: the gels and relaxers were utilised, as well as many different colours, high top weaves and extensions; no distance was too far for me to travel, in order for me obtain 'my' look. This was all about me receiving acknowledgement, but always with the recognition that I was unique and different to everybody else, so my hair style had to be a direct reflection of me. I became bored, I knew the chemicals were no good for my hair, nevertheless I persevered. I longed to grow locks, and constantly expressed my need to make that decision, parallel to a sense of anxiety and sense of acceptance. Distinction…or was it?

Spiritual direction

I stood in the mirror one day in September 2008, at approximately 1am in the morning and chopped…. and chopped, the relaxed, tired and processed hair. There I was looking back at me, a face I hadn't seen for over 15 years, it was the natural me, natural beauty.

It was time, I had received a wink from God, and He was guiding me through this next phase. Nothing happens by coincidence, and it was far bigger than a 'style' or 'look'. All the concerns and worries which I had were insignificant; this was the 'I' which was waiting to emerge. Now I have locks, my hair is the shortest it has ever been and I feel liberated, beautiful and have a sense of freedom. I've started my journey… Patience

NB 'Dread'- Fear, Terror, Horror: I do not have dreadlocks, I have 'locks' as I do not identify my locks with the description given above, neither are they intended to give that impression to others.

NATURALLY RELAXED!

Colette Machado

The transition from having relaxed hair to going natural was interestingly made in a very natural way (excuse the pun). For almost 15 years I relaxed my hair on average about twice a year to get that dead straight, silky look, which of course I was not born with. Yes, after years of enduring those burning sensations at each relaxing session, it is hard to believe that the decision to go natural was so easy. Gosh, wouldn't it be great if making decisions generally was as easy as this?

OK, let me confess. If I am to be honest I did not really make a decision to go natural, the decision was made for me,...

Table of contents

• Cover
• HAIR STORIES
• POEMS: SKIN