Too Many Black Women Will Die Never Seeing Self

Imagine dying never seeing yourself in your natural state? I know, that's a dark way to start an article but, if you’re apart of the masses of black women who've gotten a perm, relaxer or texturizer faithfully since age nine, then imagine no more. You will die never seeing how you actually look. It sounds insane because it is. Let me paint the picture.

When I was about nine years old, my mom took me to an African braiding salon to get my usual micro-braids, or maybe it was the Poetic Justice braids. We got to the salon, and my mom removed the hat from my head. My hair quickly spread all over my head. I mean a full blowdried afro. I’m pure black with real black folk hair. You get the picture. The African lady lip turned up, “Oh, wow. Her hair is really natural. Maybe you should give her a kiddie perm and come back.”

I looked up at Ma Dukes while she stared at my hair debating. She didn’t want to give me a perm, but she didn’t know how to maintain my hair. She has a more manageable grade of hair; my hair was in a different ballpark thanks to my daddy. Plus, if the Africans say you need a perm, then dammit you need a perm. Right? Since then, every three months that creamy crack (perm) was laid on them roots. Any sign of the enemy AKA natural hair, then the exterminator came out.

Fast forward 16 years, at age 25 I stood in front of my bathroom mirror wiping away the fog. My wet permed hair laid on my shoulders perfectly. I reached into the medicine cabinet, grabbed my scissors and cut a small piece of hair. The enemy was at my roots holding hair infested with creamy crack to my head. I wondered how the hair growing out of my head looked. I wondered what I looked like with that hair. I mean, it is my hair. I should know right? Just like that, my scissors snapped, and the long piece of hair was laying on my bathroom sink. Then another piece, and another piece, and another piece, until there was nothing but my hair all over my head.

The remaining fog from the mirror cleared and my real self was visible. For the first time, I was looking at Ebony Brown. Just me. Immediately, my confidence was through the roof. The shackles were broken.

Although the natural hair movement was growing, I felt pain for thousands of black women who will never experience this moment of captivation. Then it dawned on me, who trained us to throw creamy crack on “the enemy?” I assume the same people who threw crack into our neighborhoods. Good ole white supremacy did it again. How in the hell did they convince a mass majority of black women to hate our roots? I mean white supremacy is genius, evil, but genius. But, you have to ask yourself, who has the greater responsibility.

At some point, we have to wake up. I can’t force natural hair on every black woman. It’s a tragedy that it's something I would have to force. That reality used to sadden me. Not anymore, because I realize everyone doesn't want to be self. We live in a world where you can buy a black girl butt and lips, Brazilian hair, Italian clothes, and a white girl's... Well, I don't know what people want to take from white girl's but, you get the picture. It's socially acceptable to die never seeing self. Understand, I think black women are beautiful no matter what we do to our hair. That's the thing about us, we can adapt and slay in any environment. Hopefully, one day we will all love, understand and slay in our own environment as self.

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