Today we celebrate the International Day of Africa
Hair Religion Hair Religion
On how to demystify assumptions about image, religion and hygiene...
Let me get this perfectly clear from the beginning!
This is not a hair tutorial and unlike the hair porn movement we are surrounded with, I will appear with my hair unkept, with no make-up and of course you won’t see Hollywood like portrait with amazing lighting.
I can’t be arsed to go through the full treatment of looking flawless, as it is not who I am or the point I want to make with this anecdotic note.
And yes, I had a life and half already and I’m way past the delusional idea of pleasing everyone with my amazing plastic…
As they say over here:
“No puedes gustar a todo el mundo, no eres una cerveza y menos aún rubia”…
(“It’s not for everyone to like you, you’re neither beer or blonde”…)
Let’s begin with the context of being an Afro-Caribbean expat in Spain.
My view cater to those who identify with my perception or want to have a better understanding of, what it can be like to be an Afropean woman from the north of Europe living in the Mediterranean region.
While we’re at it, being totally unapologetic about that Franco-Caribbean sarcasm of a mouth…
When I arrived in 2001, I was shaven and bald on purpose…
I was entering my thirties and was quite adamant about who I was, what I wanted and where I was going in life.
I was pure Black essence and didn’t give a flying duck about what people could think…
“It’s not for everyone to like you, you’re neither beer or blonde”…
What I didn’t expect after a decade in London is to be the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons.
From my own experience in the British capital, I could sense that anyone could actually, go about their business half naked with a pink crest on the top of their head without causing any reaction to the viewing crowd.
At least it was my take on the city in the 90’s…
And of course, I had to explain on a regular basis to all the autochtones in my immediate surroundings that I was not a hardcore lesbian haunting…
No kidding, being bald, skinny, androgyne looking, scaring the hell out of the locals with my Japanese cutting age look, mounted on impossible platforms or heels that made me a giant next to the average 1m55 we had around, was the deal.
Being under these peculiar circumstances was no object still there were constant intents to possess or touch the “exotic” specimen…
As a consequence on a normal run to get a piece of bread in broad daylight, I’ll get a :
« ¿ Nena, morenita, Negra cuanto me cobras ?
Ven con papi, que tengo algo bueno para ti…»
At the same time as that midget sweaty old man would try to get me to the nearest corner having a good go at pulling off my clothes…
So, to keep it to the hair and not get into the sexual objectification of my Black body will go back to the perception of its image…
I spent 7 years of bliss with my own head :
7 years of freedom.
7 years of savings.
7 years of self-discovery…
Bliss, because the scalp massage of the hair clippers became an addictive ritual. It felt like cleansing and I needed my dose twice monthly.
Freedom, from the chemical crack, I had used for years to conform to a corporate image, I was not. I didn’t have to fight anymore against my heritage, my wildness, my savage crown which didn’t want to know about any type of discipline or tools to be tamed.
I had time on my hand, no more waking up ages ahead, to fight against myself or having to sacrify a lot of energy at night, to get that bush back under wrap. I could finally improvise, a last minute call to anywhere, to anything with anybody at any time…
Saving a lot of money on hair junk and poison, getting back to basics and learning about the simple soap and oil routine…
Rediscovering myself entirely because :
– I believed I was my enormous crown.
– I believed it defined me and had to be loved by society.
– I believed if it was not at its best and was too bulky it had to be hidden under hat.
I rediscovered my face without hair, my eyes, nose and mouth were from someone else’s. It took me some time in the morning in that dazed phase to recognise myself, while I was getting my mouth cleaned, hypnotised by the stare of that stranger in the mirror…
Even, my regular people were having difficulties believing it was me, a female friend got really angry at boyfriend, showing at the door with another girl out of the blue without any previous explanation.
We had a hard time making her believe it was the real me…
At the time, I was still a freelancer working twice a year during London Fashion Week and my team and other departments had me confused for someone else, giving me the model preferential treatment…
Obviously, I was laughing my head off…
So, I shredded to pieces my lioness crown which was the equivalent of 2 grown cats lying dead on the floor, packed my London life, got my savings out of the bank and landed with boyfriend in Mallorca.
The funny thing is, English boyfriend could not take the pressure of his first intent on immigrating, while being oblivious to what was happening to me because of who I was.
That first uncomfortable feeling of not being the dominant one, of not being able to play by the rules, unknown to him. That very wary sensation of being treated like a third class citizen had its toll on him.
After, spending a lot of time and energy trying to establish himself locally(without speaking Spanish or Catalan!!!). He had given up and was defeated, just over a year later he was back where he came from…
So, let’s go fast-forward and pass that adaptation phase, falling sick abroad that give us for a lot of juicy future episodes and let’s go back to my first attempt after the magic number 7, to grow back my hair…
…
Somehow, I was still working and being creative locally…
With the economic crisis, I left the island in 2010 for Barcelona, well that was the idea, even-though I spend most of those 3 first years in Paris making ends meet instead of enjoying the new cosmopolitan city, I freshly landed in…
The growing phase was a bit complicated as I never had short hair before.
It seems I’m one of those weird characters going from one extreme to another. As the short afro was growing into medium length fluff and had no clue as to what to do with natural hair, I fell back into the creamy crack a couple of times to get by, until the move was over.
Starting over in the city, I realised how stupid it was to care for my insides and not for the external part of my body.
Then and there, a 2 years of investigating, learning and auto-tuition process got me started.
I can’t recall today how many times, I fell over flat on the floor, checking on ingredients list of the most common everyday products and tripping in sheer madness about the amount of poison and junk contained in the recipe. There was almost no escaping the crap in anything that can be called cosmetic or hygiene products.
The afro-madness journey had begun, looking into the almost impossible route to have the luxury of a non-toxic option…
So, I started my own little campaign to prove to myself that consuming consciously and wisely could be done, even if I was in the arse end of nowhere, to have access to anything at all and with no million dollar budget for it.
(Spain doesn’t give a damn about the specific needs of Black sisters, it’s like we don’t exist!!!)
Don’t get me started on how the industry want us as product junkies and it’s feeding us on the affordable side, the negation of ourselves with the nice packaging of conforming to oppression while killing us bit by bit in the process.
(more than half of the main ingredients in Black hair formulas are carcinogenic or hormonal disruptors and in the last years some states in USA have been warning pregnant and breastfeeding women via their gynaecologist/obstetrician about the risks for mother, foetus and baby, using chemical relaxers, some perm and hair dye formulas…)
Here you have it, Black women are angry and loud, supposed to be ugly and fat, broke and hooked on the creamy crack, so they can have two head babies, born with the gender unicorn and perfect instant perm wave…
Yes indeed, cynicism much-needed…
……
I got through the transition phase, the embracing of the intricate tangled bush, even though it is still today for very few people to see…
Yes, some of us are shy with their wilderness, and we let it out in counted occasions in case someone wants to come and steal it…
Joking aside, a part from the fact that the bush is extremely delicate and fragile and requires low manipulation and protective styles, I am into my head-wrap and ethnic scarf empowerment moment.
My Caribbean experience of wrapping has nothing to do with the Art and highly skilled technique of African women.
I wear my scarf as a tradition of resistance, following in the footsteps of my ancestors transforming a slave uniform forced only unto women, to make them less attractive and mark them as servants.
I love that powerful meaning turn into ethnic elegance, to overcome the stigma.
I rejoice in the fact that it suits me like a glove and my face has been designed to wear it with pride…
Let’s go back to basics after that little drop of historical sentiment and explain a bit more in depth what is actually going on under that scarf…
Water first of all, is not that much of a friend.( limescale and chlorine are not my two best friends.)
So, I have to keep it to one shampoo every 5 to 7 days.
Having to undo the twists or whatever protective style I’m wearing, causes inevitably damage to the crown.
The equivalent of the quarter of any medium size furry animal is killed every week…
(the glorious side effect of thyroid imbalance, thanks to years of creamy crack passed from my mum’s body, then from a decade of constant use on my part, for it to disturb my endocrine system to the point of thyroid cancer and early signs of uterine fibroids, being an epidemic in my family, on my home island of Martinique and most of the Black Diaspora worldwide…)
Then it’s the pre-poo routine with oil mask and then henna mixed up with Ayurvedic ingredients.
Few hours later or the next day, having a 4-year old in the middle, not caring if I will look beautiful or ridiculous with my dry mud going to bed…
I proceed to a real shampoo or co-wash, cleansing by sections and creating with raw organic ingredients witches potions in the kitchen, following granny’s instructions for the post shampoo routine…
Not strictly true every time, those treasures I keep in the fridge are boosters to any good base product.*
When I have time I do communicate with my spirits to get that egg and rum or coconut and honey going, that avocado, papaya, molasses recipes…
This is luscious treatments and fingerling with hundred of new potions to be explored and created…
Going back to my glamorous Caribbean maama’s life, rushing out of the shower with any old towel on my head.
Yeah, I know they say it has to be an old cotton t-shirt but I don’t have an available man big enough to fit my entire bush, I am afraid…
So, let me forget about that and have that kid fed and ready to bed to get down to the handling of that headful…
And if my mission is yet again a fail, well, tomorrow will be another day to keep on trying…
At that point, I won’t lie we are talking second or third day with still a mess on my head…
Getting down to the nitty-gritty of messing finally with that hair…
With a bit more magical potion, wetting back that straw with hibiscus infusion, prepping up those locks with curl defining cream and sealing that all lot with coconut oil…
The rejoicing of the touch, of the taking care of, of the commemoration of the ancestral traditions revived and no longer lost because there as well, we overcame…
Ooouuff !! Just writing that half of the week hair routine, I’m exhausted…
Thinking as well about what happened in between…
You know that life normal people have…
Getting to that point, I’m quite happy to go back to my normal business with those beautiful wraps I’m experimenting with…
Especially, if it’s what we call “estivale season”in France, summer season, colourful season, scarf season…
I may add, it’s quite helpful as I always do it the other way around, letting the hair grow in summer and shaving it in winter…
I have to admit that lately, it has been a bit of a pain getting out and about with that Islamophobia syndrome.
Not only locals can be obnoxious about it, I have now tourist heaven jumping to the bandwagon.
The scenario is :
They’re coming from the north to get burn over here (can I laugh silently…) and forget on the way that they left home behind and this is the Mediterranean with darker people mixed with Arabs and Jews, and this is obviously not, their own private courtyard…
As if, I was crazy enough to go up there to freeze my beautiful Black derrière and expose myself to unflavoured lifestyle and food, no thank you sir…
This is a bloody hot climate to deal with and my melanodermic presence, as a long term resident makes more sense than their leucodermic genes passing by…
And yes, there are communities of people of African descent in Spain, in the XXI century, actually Spain has the oldest European trace of African Moors in the history of the European continent.
What can I say, we are still dealing with that postcolonial conqueror syndrome…
My head can be covered, mostly partially, while my body is not, which means that my headwrap has nothing to do with a religious practice or rite.
And even if it was the case, it would not be anybody’s business.
“Live and let live, because your freedom ends where mine starts”…
I admit that I do practice a similar reserve to Muslim women in not showing or providing access to my beautiful locks to anybody passing by, as I feel this is a very private and intimate part of myself, I don’t want to share that easily.
And I reckon, it does yet again take me back to Caribbean ancestry.
I’m sure I lost you by now, but let me remind you how often we are as women of African descent objectified for our hair and touched with no reserve by anybody.
It happened to me, when I was quite young, travelling with my mother to this exact same place and random people did touch me several times in the street, pulling my braids not only out of curiosity but to hurt as well.
And if you didn’t know, in the Caribbean islands we are quite modest about showing our hair unless it’s perfectly set in intricate design, I imagine this is the legacy of centuries of aesthetic persecution.
Well, that is what all the fuss was about…
Welcome to my dimension folks…
PS: I did have to apply a bit of filter to those instant bathroom shots…
Even-though I might almost get into “the Black don’t crack” special academy as I’m closer to the age of a “Dynasty” cast than a “Sex in the city” let’s face it…
But hey! The no make-up stunt, I must proudly say was real.
PHOTOS
related articles
