Column: Relationship Problems

“The relationship between a young black girl and her hair is one of the most precious and delicate relationships on planet Earth.”

Saniah Cannon, Guest Writer|December 3, 2021

courtesy photo

Saniah Cannon loves her hair. “For once I could say that I was 100 percent comfortable in my hair. “I like my hair” I whispered like it was a precious secret for just me. And for the first time the public reflected my happy thoughts about my hair.”

I dreaded it every time it came around. You would think that it was something I would have grown used to at this point, but no… the same emotion evoked from me every single time…dread. The temperature in the bathroom seemed to rise as if I didn’t have an entire house to protect me from the Texas heat, adding what felt like literal fuel to the fire. The bathroom counter appeared as if a mad man took shears to a black poodle. And there my reflection stared back at me as teary eyed as I was, scissors now discarded as reality set in. Taking scissors to my head you would think that my hair would be even the slightest bit shorter but that was not the case. The beauty of synthetic hair. That also wasn’t the problem, the problem was the state of my hair. My natural hair.

My hair and I had a very complicated relationship with an even more complicated past. My hair was not dreadful. But there was a certain mindset needed when taking on the task of getting it done. It wasn’t for the weak. Testing your patience, taking an extended amount of time and care. My hair was needy, my hair is needy. Needed constant care and maintenance from deep conditionings and trimming to getting protective styles. Sometimes it felt like a part-time job.

The relationship between a young black girl and her hair is one of the most precious and delicate relationships on planet Earth. It should be very cherished. For the foundation of the relationship isn’t built on its own, it is influenced by just about everything around it. The relationship was like a sponge, soaking up everything in their world. Both the good, the bad and the ugly– especially the ugly. To be completely honest, society was like the glue between a black child and their hair, at least until later in life when they can form their own opinion about said relationship. But when that finally happens the damage could already be done and to reverse all that thinking takes time. Lots and lots of time, for old habits die hard.

So when growing up and hearing how my relatives talked about my hair versus how other people talked about my hair gave me whiplash. My family always complimented my hair, the majority of them had trauma done to their hair because of a perm they got at too young. I wasn’t allowed to get a perm and I thank my mom everyday for making that promise with her uncle. So I grew up hearing how thick my hair was and how long it was and I was happy, it felt nice to get complimented. So when I got to middle school and comments like “You have a lot of hair…for a black girl” were directed toward me I was a bit confused. Not surprised but confused. Not just comments like that affected the way I viewed my hair but how the media showed my hair.

Whenever a successful black woman was shown in a place of profession they all had one thing in common…straight hair whether it was on a television show or on an ad, no matter the length or the color, their hair was bone straight. Having your hair braided in some way was “better” than wearing it in its natural state. Because so help me if a black girl was to have a bad hair day. Everybody and their momma would have something to say and if not with their mouths then their eyes said more than enough. Those eyes could tell more stories than someone caught in a lie.I could feel their eyes on me, they crawled up to the base of my neck and settled there as comfortable as a guest that overstayed their welcome. Their eyes whispered things their mouth didn’t dare to say. In their mind my hair was the problem.

If I were to go in public with my hair undone someone would have a problem with it, if I were to dare and wear a bonnet someone would have a problem, if I were to wear a scarf someone would have a problem. I was not allowed to have a bad hair day. A messy bun on my hair and a messy bun on someone with straight hair or even someone with a looser curl was two completely different things. When they wore it, it was seen as cute and lazy, casual but when I wore it my hair was nappy and unkept. I remember going to school with my afro and thinking that my hair was cute and my teacher thought I was having a bad hair day.

So the way I viewed my hair deteriorated. There was a period of time where I hated my hair and despised it. It didn’t do what I wanted it to, it took way longer to finally tame, and when it was tame it still wasn’t done. To wash my hair could take a full day, an ENTIRE DAY dedicated to my hair and that all goes to waste because as soon as I step into the public it goes under-appreciated.

The bathroom felt heavy. Scattered across the counter were an assortment of hair products. Beyonce and Erykah Badu filled the room. Honey and shea butter drifted throughout. And there sat in the mirror, me. Sweat trickled down my forehead, my arms felt weak like I had just gone back to the gym after a hiatus, comb in one hand and hair in another. I had already been through two entire albums of Beyonce and Jhene Aiko. I hoped that these efforts would pay off for tomorrow. Waking up earlier than I usually do, I got back to work with my hair. Taking the time to separate each curl. I had spent the entire weekend watering my hair with nutrients like a baby plant.

There I stood in the mirror. A small smile seems to stretch across my face. For once I could say that I was 100 percent comfortable in my hair. “I like my hair” I whispered like it was a precious secret for just me. And for the first time the public reflected my happy thoughts about my hair. They were starting to see it the way I saw it. My hair was not dreadful.