Ruminations on Being Oneself
by Jayne Oasin

Hair, hair, ha-hair, hair, hair!! These lines from the 1960's play "Hair" sing to me every day as I walk and sit and talk and shop. Hair braids, dreds, almost bald, combed, uncombed, hair of all colors and textures and styles. Hair, as a Negro, has always occupied a major part of my life. A child of the 50's, I grew up having my hair briskly brushed and tightly braided. My hair, thick and wavy, received the designation of "good" hair. It did not need to be pressed hard by a pressing comb. And yet it definitely did need to be controlled — no loose, hanging hair for this girl.

White people's hair was straight — at least the ones we saw as models, movie stars. Those blondes who ran across the fields and flipped their hair; those brunettes with the proper flip at the end and not a hair out of place.

Other black children/people had "bad" hair — that which needed to be hard-pressed and greased to be controlled. And, of course, control and straightness were the issues. Why straight? Because white people's hair was straight — at least the ones we saw as models, movie stars. Those blondes who ran across the fields and flipped their hair; those brunettes with the proper flip at the end and not a hair out of place. I remember a movie where a woman took her hair out at night before going to bed — an unheard of idea to most Negro women, who tied or rolled or pinned or clipped their hair down at night so that it would be presentable in the morning.

The stunning variety of hair here in Durban astounds me and fills me with joy. There are an infinite number of lengths, colors and styles; one's own, or borrowed, or bought, that can be used to express one's personality. Or — and what a concept — it can appear any way it happens to be, without a thought to what it looks like: clean, but not fussed with.

And, for me (this is the point of joyousness), much of it is like MINE — thick, curly, wavy, black hair. Proud hair.

To my mother, hair was a substance to be controlled, and she constantly had to control mine. Her hair was perfectly in control, she being the example of a woman who had good hair, white hair, bright red hair. So the truth was known, though not explicitly stated, that my unruly hair was my father's fault. My hair, like my looks, closely resembled him, and so the battle lines were drawn.

He, of course, in the fashion of most proper, on-the-rise, Negro men of his day, wore his hair cut very close to his head, used a light hair pomade and brushed it vigorously to tame it. Others of his male associates chose to straighten theirs in the manner of Nat King Cole and Earl "Fatha" Hines.

In the Sixties, flushed with the freedom of being briefly at an all historically black university, I began to grow an Afro. My hair had become a problem for me. Newly married, I was loath to wear the large rollers and hair clips necessary to keep my hair straight, for fear of inflicting pain on my new love. For a time, I would wait until he left for work and laboriously set my hair in rollers, so that it would look presentable in class or shopping or whatever activity brought me out of my house, into a world with still-rigid rules about appearance.

My Afro was huge and magnificent! I loved it! It was less a political statement than a statement of personal freedom.

My hair actually had/has a nice, loose curl and wave. So for some reason, I stopped using rollers and gel and hair dryers all the time. It was not abrupt; I was, after all, stepping out into uncharted waters. Eventually, I went all the way and my Afro was huge and magnificent! I loved it! It was less a political statement than a statement of personal freedom. I just washed it and let it go. That was the first time in my life that I had done nothing to my hair to tame or control it. Whatever it did naturally, it just did; whatever it was, it just was! Amen.

Since the Sixties, I have tried and rejected many hair styles and lengths. I did decide to rid myself for all times of rollers and clips, but have used electric hot rollers at the height of their popularity. Most recently, I have worn my hair very, very short, but here in Durban, 3000 miles away from my beautician, it has begun to curl and wave, and I am remembering that I like it. Stay tuned…

I watch my daughters sleeping with their long, curly, wavy, full hair spread haphazardly over the pillows (sleeping!), and I see freedom — the freedom of a new generation. They have inherited another round of texture/color genes that connect several centuries of black, European, Native American, and Filipino races and ethnicities to each other through them.

Hair, hair, he-he he hair…

The Rev. Jayne Oasin is the Social Justice Officer at the national Episcopal Church Center in New York City. She is responsible for a range of projects in the Peace & Justice Ministries program, particularly its work in anti-racism ministries. Jayne is also a priest in the Episcopal Diocese of New Jersey. She can be reached by email at joasin@episcopalchurch.org