She looked as good as the day. My fingers fondled about her from the tiny frolicles of her arm northbound until they found purpose in her hair. As my index finger became a hostage to a cornrow sheltered by a sheath of horse fiber, my fateful inquisition began.
I don’t encourage a follow in my fingersteps as you too may have a page turner seized or worse yet, develop an obscene intrigue in the captivating and abandoning strand of contemplation that is the Brazilian weave.
I dared to ask how much it cost and the answer left me speechless - but type full. The reason why someone would want that extensive maintenance plan for the rest of one’s existence titled my vessel enough for what we have here.
In the 1970’s Martin Luther king led an incredibly prominent socio-political movement which played an incredible role in the revolution of the black society. Unlike his contemporary, Malcolm x, Martin Luther didn’t strive for black power. His dream was of equality and black consciousness. Consciousness, that is, of one’s self and the embracing of one’s true identity. This notion could be stretched far across the borders of race but Ill practice restraint. MLK wanted the black civilization to be proud of who they are and embrace their natural attributes.
Racism however and all the components therein had bestowed insistently upon the black community a self-inferiority complex. The idea that white people are superior slowly began making and shaping their logic.
Long and silky, shiny hair, and light skin resembling purest of pures. The grave deepens but I’ve dug enough as we've uncovered the two attributes of the white man that the black person, Martin Luther king and all the ‘black is beautiful’ chanters could never compete with - Beauty.
As my eyes left the green beam of the math tool and fixed on hers, I looked with a most contorted expression. How could a person ever live with themselves knowing that they have blasphemed against the holy trinity for a chance to prove that oppression is still ferociously in effect?
In the same era, protestors pertaining to the movement began to publicly object to the use of hair strengtheners, bleaches, skin whiteners and everything black people used to make themselves, well… white. We’re talking marches with Fists in the air, a cloud of afros and a floor of sneakers (Thus came about afro comb with fist on the top… I cannot account for the footwear however). They began to embrace their blackness and revolted any white culture transference they had undergone. Being black, became the bruise of an abused woman worn with litost and an exhibitionists flare. They needed not apply something to themselves to be beautiful or acceptable, their being was enough
I am aware of our unique psychologies, face and humanity alike - making the act of hiding your own attributes to look like the other person as futile as standing still for a very long time.
Today, almost all the black woman I come across boast a well lubricated peace of oppression on their heads. And if for some reason this additive isn’t available to them, life as they know it is in utter distress. An acquaintance of mine even said this, ‘god is unfair for giving us this hair!'
A protest chant if you will - unfair for this hair! Unfair for this hair!
Now I’m not saying that all black woman should cast their weaves to sea and sport the perplexity cluster that is Khoi-San hair. Definitely not because the argument that goes against all that I have said is just as strong if not overwhelming. It calls itself Globalization - the inter-cultural exchange that has allowed Skhothanes the Italian Carvella and coloured people martial arts training. Without the possibility of borrowing from each other’s cultures we wouldn’t be much of a unified or interactive world.
So you, yonder, contemplating your scalp. It’s quite alright.
My finger was rescued by my pulling wrist, whom I will now deem town hero in the city of Arm. I caught a glance of the stuff gated by her eyes and remember what gave her her genius - all that she could say without saying anything
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