When Ethnicity Comes Back to Haunt You

I try not to actively feel sorry for myself, but this morning it became apparent to me again that being half-black and growing up in a white society has left me ignorant in the worst way.

My traumatic hair history involves being the only child in my family to receive my dad's afro-hair genes, and neither of my parents knew how to take care of my hair. My mom learned how to do relaxer perms at home, but when she was gone, my dad took me every few months to a couple different black hair salons in the area to have my hair chemically relaxed.

I hated this experience. I hated not understanding what my hairdressers were saying to me in their thick black accents. I hated being surrounded by scary foam heads with wigs on them and bushels of fake black hair hanging from the walls for braiding. I hated coming home and having my hair greased and plastered to my scalp. I didn't know how to take care of it, and none of my friends or family could sympathize. I was embarrassed to swim at school with my classmates because I wouldn't be able to fix my hair afterwards before the next class. I couldn't just wash my hair and blowdry it and be on my way--ever. I know everyone hates their hair, but I really, really hated mine.

When I moved to Utah for school, I ended up growing my hair out completely, and it was so unruly, just out of control. I let it go because 1) I was trying to embrace my natural beauty and not worry so much about looking white or Asian, 2) I'd almost always cried when seeing my hair after having it relaxed growing up, and 3) I did not know a single black person at BYU when I moved there who could direct me to anyone who might know how to do my hair.

As you can see, I could hide things in my hair, lose things in my hair, stick in glow sticks like antennae, etc.)

Before I got married, I decided it was time to get my hair relaxed again, and I was so happy when I did. I went on a search in Utah to find a good black hairdresser, and have tried to do the same here in Portland. After relaxing my virgin hair, it immediately became so much more manageable. And after years of trying to grow out my brittle hair, I could finally make it look pretty good. This is the longest my hair has ever been, and now I want it back.

The Horror Story!!!

Yesterday I went to get my hair relaxed at a black hair salon. It's the second salon I've tried since I moved here. I do hate the initial results of having my hair plastered to my head, but I also don't know how to manage the unruly fro when it starts growing out. So whatever it takes to make it more manageable is worth it to me, even if I feel butt ugly when I get home. Whenever we move, I go on a search to find someplace I can go where this will hopefully cost less than $100.00.

To tame wild black hair takes some pretty strong chemicals, and I know this. I've had mild burns before, but in my ignorance, I went to the salon having washed my hair less than 24 hours before. This meant, apparently, that my scalp and hair were dry and there weren't any natural oils to protect my scalp.

My head was on fire, which is normal, I thought, so when my hairdresser asked if my scalp was burning, I said, "A little," nervously, and she left me to let the chemical set before washing it out. When she finally rinsed it, she used her fingernails to scratch at my scalp and it was so painful. Then she blow-dried it with a sharp comb on the end of the dryer. The heat plus the razor edges of the comb dragging across my scalp was killing me.

"Beauty is pain," I kept telling myself, trying to be strong and not say anything. I've been through this same experience before, and every time I'd go to a black hairdresser growing up, I would silently submit myself to the experience and try not to complain or say anything about the pain. I'd try not to say anything at all because I was very awkward with black people anyway.

I left the salon with my head just aching, and when I went to bed at night, it was still on fire. It felt like the worst sunburn you can imagine, where even the warmth of your body is too much heat.

When I woke up this morning, I was horrified to run my fingers through my hair and feel . . . this hardness, scaliness--my hair was in twisted clumps, plastered to my head at the roots. This was no minor chemical burn; there was some sort of discharge from my scalp that felt like someone had poured glue all over my head and it had dried into my hair.

At first I thought my hair was caked with blood and started freaking out. I didn't know what to do . . . I panicked, worried my hair was going to fall out. I called the salon and tried not to cry when I went in, saying I didn't know what happened or what to do and I wanted my money back.

When I went in, the hairdresser defended herself, saying she asked me if it was burning and I said only "a little." She said it felt like I'd recently washed my hair before coming and asked why I didn't say anything about the burning if it was that bad. I said I didn't have this done very often. I didn't know I was supposed to wait four days or more after washing. She should have said something too, right?

I asked to see what product she used. I asked to speak to the manager. They said chemical burns happen sometimes when you're dealing with a strong relaxer, and they wouldn't give me my money back. And I didn't know how to stand up for myself.

They said my hair wouldn't fall out, and offered to wash it and deep condition it to "fix" it to remedy the situation. I winced with pain as she shampooed my hair, massaging the dried clumps of hair apart. There's a chance, while my head heals, that I'll wake up tomorrow morning and the same thing will have happened again.

That's what I get for $70.00, being half-black and ignorant.

So if you're an adopted African girl in a white family, call me and we'll go out for lunch. I feel your pain, and I feel it on my head.