Hair dos and don'ts
When I was a knock-kneed 12-year-old girl, I visited my four cousins in Umlazi, Durban. At the time I had thick, strong hair and we excitedly pulled out a box of crème relaxer and each took our turn in front of the mirror transforming our hair from kinky to straight.
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Afterwards, every time I was in Durban during the December holidays, my cousins and I would ritualistically doll ourselves up. We had a reputation to protect, after all. We were known as the prettiest girls on our street.
I haven’t relaxed my hair for nearly three years now. Years of harsh chemicals have damaged it beyond repair. I can wear long braids, a weave or even a wig and style them any way I like, but maintaining the politics of my hair has been a bit more difficult.
Women who wear theirs in an Afro or dreadlocks sometimes sneer at me, telling me they feel “liberated” by their natural hair. I can attest to feeling just as liberated by wearing extensions. I admit natural hair can be cute but for some women it’s not always so flattering.
I recently went natural. Without my weave, I realised how small my head was in proportion to my ears and that my face was too round. I was irritated by feeling the wind on my neck. My colleagues liked my new look but within two weeks I was back at the salon.
I can already hear men talking about how a sister who wears extensions is a sell-out. But take a look at their girlfriends and that’s exactly the kind of girl they are attracted to.
At home my hair is often a topic of conversation. To my embarrassment, I am often berated in front of friends and extended family members about my decision not only to wear extensions but also about my preference for a blonde weave. I went blonde in my early 20s at varsity. Blonde girls seemed to have more fun—they certainly turned more heads. So I went platinum. The next day when I walked into the library, the librarian nearly fell off his chair. I got double the number of compliments from men and women alike, so I’ve kept it that way.
My fixation is not necessarily with the actual weave but with the length. I knew that, if I wanted my hair to resemble the length of the weave I adore, I’d have to grow dreadlocks. So, last year I tried wearing short dreads under a long weave. But to nurture and maintain dreads to the desired 40 centimetres would take me from six to 10 years. After a month I gave up. I just didn’t have the patience.
That’s when I started asking how much my hair meant to me. I picked up Chris Rock’s 2009 documentary, Good Hair, a conversation about the politics of black hair. To discover where extensions come from, he travels to India and speaks to women about a right-of-passage ceremony known as tonsure. Hair is considered a sign of vanity and shaving your head a symbol of sacrifice. He then shows a woman, a girl and a wailing baby having their hair shaved.
I felt guilty for my transgressions and wondered whether my hair concerns could be an obsession. Then I realised Rock’s argument was unfair. Tonsure is not a social injustice—the women agree to it and don’t care that they don’t make a profit from it because, as one of them says, “it’s just hair and it will grow back”.
Well, for some people, it will.
Last month at a party I spoke to some women about the questions Rock’s video raised for me. Well-known actress Gugu Zuma admitted that she’d tried wearing extensions but then decided to wear her hair in an Afro.
“There must be something seriously wrong if I can look at my natural hair and feel that I am not satisfied with it,” she said.
Point taken. But it would take more than emotional blackmail to sway me.
When self-proclaimed gold-digger Khanyisile Mbau admitted to spending R10 000 on a weave, there was an outcry. I’ve spent more than the average girl on a weave but any smart South African girl knows that a weave bought at the Cash ‘n Carry can be just as good as a Brazilian one—the most beautiful braids I’ve ever worn cost just R80.
Last week, while I was getting my honey-brown braids put in, the top half of my head was still in a bushy mane. I asked the women in the salon what they thought: Would anyone be impressed if they saw me like this? The women, in various states of natural hair, dreadlocks, weaves and Afros, all responded with a unified “No!”
Ultimately, it’s about choice and choice is freedom. As I walked out of the salon that day I couldn’t help but feel gorgeous—which is exactly how it should be.
My favourite style icon, Mary J Blige, still rocks a blonde weave at age 40. My hair adds to my character. I’ve learned to live with it—and so should you.
