Hair raising

I know some of us like to forget this era as not too many were looking as good as we do now, but when Michael Jackson's Thriller came out, that long jheri curl look rocked by Miss Nola Ray as the object of MJ's affection was quite an inspiring 'do for the young black ladies watching videos late night in the rec room.  My mother booked appointments for my sister and me at a Beauty School where we were to have our tired, French braided kid styles transformed into the glow of Nola's shiny long curls.  I probably should have realized we were headed for a different kind of curve when those tiny rollers came out, but my young heart was set on the hotness and I was sure, as I'd brought the picture for reference, that they got the vibe I was going for.  Maybe it wouldn't be exact, but it would be fresh.


My first glance in the mirror and I knew we hadn't made it.  I bore no resemblance to Nola Ray or any love interest of anyone, certainly not Michael Jackson in Thriller.  I looked more like Jermaine or some other lesser Jackson.  My bad skin and braces were not helping the situation much either and I vowed never to be seen again in public.  There was the unfortunate issue of having to attend school for the next few years and the fact that my mother did not sympathize with me in the least.  A full weekend of non-stop crying ensued and then Monday morning.  I wore a headband and didn't take it off for the next three years.  No really.  If you can find the photos you will see this is true. 


From that moment forward, I wore my hair short.  I'd never dreamed I could be a long hair person.  The jheri curl gave way to a Denise Huxtable faux punk rock spiked look, then shaved (my dad really loved that one), and then a natural.  I kept it short, neat, cool, relaxed.


Now in Barbados, for the first time in 35 years, I find my hair nearing shoulder length and see photos of myself where I am hardly recognizable to myself.  This is no easy feat, as any black woman can tell you, as the humidity, salt water, chlorinated pool water, and sun wreak havoc on our hair.  But my other alternative is to have to maintain that short look which turns out not to have been so natural.  There is lots of conditioning.  Wearing leave-ins for days at a time and hot oil treatments.  I have thought about cornrows or braids or something kind of "island style."  Not me.  When I do occasionally blow it out to remind my husband that I was once totally hot, I take the blowdryer out on the patio so as not to get heat trapped in the house.  Seriously.  My hair has been lightened by the sun and a little squeeze of lime juice in the hair.  You can take the girl out of New Jersey, but you can't take Jersey out of the girl.  Word.

Here, as in countless locales around the world where reputable and underground salons house women and men who can work some magic with Black hair, I have chosen not to submit.  I do not want to be a slave to the salon.  Afraid of getting my hair wet, sweating it out, or having my "kitchen" look raggedy.  I wear a ponytail or a bun everyday because to wear it down is to sweat and itch more than I can bear.  Seems silly to keep it longer and yet it works.  I told Didier I would cut it when we moved away from Barbados.  Get a style and get back into style, fashion, character.  But for now, all this hair signifies my walk off the beaten path, a journey into myself.  I am out of the loop.  Lost in the jungle.  Thick hair growing around my head.  Dare I admit, I kind of like it?

(c)  Copyright 2010.  City Mom in the Jungle.