Home
Rumbi Goredema

Rumbi Goredema

By Rumbi Goredema

This was post was written about eight months ago.  I recently discovered ZinaSaro-Wiwa’s brilliant op-ed documentary, Transition, which deals intelligently and with the issue of choosing to go back to natural hair.  This led me to revisit this and submit it to Feminists SA.

When I was 12 (going rapidly on 40), my parents sent me boarding school. Not because they didn’t want to live with me, but because taking your kids out of the city and sending them to semi- rural (always) Christian (the crazy kind) homes away from home was what you did to ensure they were the best they could be. (The jury’s out on whether that worked for me.) As part of my very sombre preparations for going to school, I had to get a haircut. As in my chemically-straightened, painstakingly, well-managed (almost almost) shoulder-length mop had to go, as per crazy Christian regulations.   I can’t tell you how hard this sucked. For years, from even before I could remember, I’d been growing straightening and primping my hair. And as I sat in the salon, getting my (first ever) haircut, watching years of work fall to the floor, I cried bitterly.

After my time in the land of crazy, I found myself with a head full of hair, and the power (mom’s wallet withstanding) to dictate how I would wear it. Problem was, it was still pretty short hair. Yes, this was a problem for me. My solution? Tack on some fake hair, and wait for miracles. And thus I entered the world of braiding! For all my white, non-braiding readers, it works like this: the hairstylist basically braids on strands of synthetic fibre onto your head. This takes anything from 4 hours to 2 days- she has to braid the hair into your hair, so that means painstakingly picking up a few strands of it a time, and braiding into it. The end result is you have braided strands of hair, flowing from your head, as if it were your own magically straight crown! I had breaks in-between braiding sessions at first (this is recommended – braiding involves hours of hair tugging, followed by the awful task, months later of having to unknot the hair that’s been growing into your braids – a world of ouch all round), but soon grew impatient with having to live with my substandard, short hair in-between periods when my hair would be long, and my life perfect. So, about 4 years ago, I stopped taking breaks. My hair life became an endless cycle of braiding, unbraiding and then immediately rebraiding. It’s been going on long enough that there are people in my life (including my fiancé) who haven’t actually seen my natural hair.

And now here I am.  I was up till midnight last night, unbraiding my hair.  I was up at 6am this morning (this morning being a Sunday morning) unknotting my unbraided hair, and although it is a thought process I have entertained the last few times I’ve done this ritual, somewhere in-between the fifth episode of Buffy and the particularly stubborn knots at the back of my head, I thought, I cannot physically sit in the salon for 6 hours ever again.  Can’t do it.  In addition to being sick of the tedium involved with braiding, I have also been finding it increasingly difficult to quiet down the part of me that knows the racial implications of braiding my hair.  As much as I’ve told myself that braids are different from weaves (not that I’m judging weaves – to each her own), and are an expression of African ingenuity and beauty, I can’t get away from the idea that I began my braiding as a way to grasp at the long flowing artificially straight non-nappiness that my relaxed hair had put me on a path to.  The long flowing straightness has always equalled beautiful in my head.  I could compare my head to the heads I saw on TV, in magazines, and approximate the standards of attractiveness and normalcy set by those heads.  And everytime I braided my head, I was kind of announcing that to the world.  It got so that I started telling myself and everyone, including stronger, black(er?) women, brave enough to wear their natural hair) that I only braided my hair because it was so much more manageable that way (even though my hair has never given me a day’s unruliness), or because I needed to hide the stress-induced alopecia I developed after 5 months of the job from hell.  But there was no hiding from the statement that the newly shiny, curly, synthetic strands hanging from head shouted.

So I decided to make a different statement, to tell a different story, one that matches the black woman I am trying to be, and that I hope my daughter and her daughters will grow up to be.  I went to the salon today, and much to the confusion of the women there, I asked that they treat and style my hair as it was.  No straighteners, no synthetic hair.  Now, for 4 years, the women in this place have guarded the secret of my ‘real’ hair, and never judged me as I braided and rebraided obsessively.  Today, I asked for very little, and it caused something of a problem: the stylist didn’t understand my request, and we had to re-wet my hair after she prematurely blow-dried it in preparation for my usual braiding ritual; when it came to styling, she pretty much resorted to blow-drying it as straight as she possibly could (without chemicals), and then confusedly combed it upward (I teased it into an Afro myself before leaving – I’m not ready for the Marge Simpson look just yet).  It struck me as somehow sad that this talented black woman stylist, who has braided my weak, abused hair into a presentable state at a moment’s notice, and who no doubt has hair very much like my own under her braids, could not cope at all with my natural hair.

Ah, black hair.  What a tangled web we black women (excuse the pun) weave.  I can’t say if the fro is forever, or that I’ll never feel up to braiding again.  But I am calling a truce with my poor, abused natural mop.  It’s stood by me through dangerous chemicals, crazy Christian-regulation haircuts, tugging and knotting and all.  My hair is beautiful, and it is strong, and it is black.  It’s high time I let it communicate all those things for itself.

Rumbi’s hairvolution

About these ads

7 thoughts on “Talking about a Hairvolution

  1. loved your article, Rumbi. i’ve learnt new things about hair and it’s clarified some mysteries … I can say that the braiding / weaving option seems like a TON of hard work, I would never have the patience. but we all have our hair issues, and it’s taken me a long time to make peace with mine too, and find a style that reflects who i am, and is workable. i have straight fine brown (with lots of grey these days) hair, and i’ve never liked mine either. decades ago I wanted a mop of curls sprouting in all directions. many, MANY perms later (the white woman’s version of hair torture — using chemicals to make your hair different from what your genes gave you) i realised i would never have that hair. then i grew my hair long, hoping also for a cascade of beautiful thick shiny hair. didn’t happen. my hair’s too thin, instead i had ratty strands … so about 12 years ago i accepted that, and i’ve had short hair since then. i love the way it looks when a good hairdesser gets hold of it, and it’s been fun … done lots of experimenting with colours and textures and layers and and even had various patterns shaved into a number one cut. so here’s to us and our hair adventures!

    Like

  2. i have an afro too,and i love it!i’m always suprised that people feel they must comment about the fact that i have “natural” hair as opposed to hair like every other person in the world.at some point black women’s hair needs to be hair and not political or intertwined with our ideas of beauty.i used to have a “chiskop”(a shaved head)and i was regaled by many people about what that “means”.it just means less hassle for 3 month intervals(that’s how long it takes for my hair to grow)!make sure you invest in glycerine and good hair food and your afro should be great and painless!

    Like

  3. Thanks, Athambile – good hair food and glycerine, check! Ultimately, I think the goal to work toward is a place where black women (all women, really) can make choices that are unrestricted by narrow definitions of beauty. Whether that choice is a weave, braids, chiskop, afro. I know I personally was restricted and my choice was laden with meanings I was deeply uncomfortable with. My fro means better things for me :)

    Like

  4. I’m going to give this to my students to read, Rumbi — what an honest and dignified blog! What about a full face pic for those of us who are too far away to see you personally these days?

    Like

  5. Thank you, Melissa – !!that is the highest compliment!! I haven’t been to many events where photos are taken (all work etc.) but there’re a few of me with the new hair on facebook… Am working on getting more though :)

    Like

  6. Hi Rumbi
    I enjoyed reading your article as someone interested in the politics of Black hair and skin colour across Blacknesses (I use Black in the Black Consciousness and political-Blackness sense, and unfortunately find myself having to explain this since our society has returned to Apartheid’s racial markers and categories). I wrote a similar piece on my engagement with hair and skin color a while back. It’s at:

    http://mg.co.za/article/2003-12-29-black-like-me

    Wondering if you’ve read Alice Walker’s Oppressed Hair Puts a Ceiling on the Brain?
    Thank you for writing and sharing.

    Like

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s