One of the first things my daughter says to me after waking each day—now that she’s evolved from the larval stage of infancy into a strategically manipulative human being—is “Please eat peanut-jelly.” Then she follows it, while shaking her head slowly, with “No hair, mama. No hair today.” Generally speaking, I comply with her first request and override her second because the former is reasonable while the latter is non-negotiable. The child is persistent in trying never to have her hair combed.
Still, we embark on an almost-daily ritual that is painful yet important for us both. To say Ruby wails when I comb her thick, kinky, lovely hair doesn’t quite begin to describe her emotional state. Wailing is serene compared to the drama that unfolds in my home. There is thrashing, jerking, writhing, kicking, slapping, bucking, drooling, farmer-hanky-ing (my personal favorite) and—the latest addition to the repertoire—a sustained, alienesque noise that seems to sharpen as it bends between the spaces of her teeth.
My next-door neighbor has obviously heard the commotion because she got it in her head last fall to express—to my face—her pleasure at hearing my daughter’s cries. Knowing that I suffer from parenting hardship makes her feel better, she said. (That she takes joy in my low points is another issue, but I will say this: We do not schedule play dates together.)
Over Christmas, while at a cabin with a group of friends, Ruby cleared the joint before the wide-toothed comb even touched her scalp. Her dramatic interpretation of seeing Jason’s masked face outside a cabin window began as soon as the Abebi’s Safari Detangler emerged from my toiletry bag. Our cabin mates quickly ushered their children outside to play, protecting them from a firsthand account of the Linda Blair phenomenon.
My friend Barbara likes to say that Ruby “acts a fool,” and in an attempt to normalize my experience, she has recounted for me memories of having her hair done as a child. A few months ago, during one of our hair-wrestling sessions, I stopped combing, took Ruby by the shoulders, looked into her eyes and explained calmly that doing her hair is my way of showing the world that I love her. Which is when Ruby stopped her shrieking, put her hands on my shoulders, looked into my eyes and explained calmly, “That crazy, mama.” Life really was easier before she had words.
Of course, that would seem crazy to a toddler and also the average (white) Joe, but it’s my reality; hair is a Big Deal for many in the black community. Which isn’t to say it’s not also important in the white community except that—it’s exactly not. The biological children of my white friends can wake up and run out the door and their hair hangs in place, never mind the cowlick here or the kink-built-in-sleep there. If their child has curly hair, it can blow wildly in the wind. Mussed hair is acceptable, intentional even.
But letting it all go is not a viable option for Ruby and me. How a black child’s hair is done is a reflection of how well she is cared for, valued and loved, and as the white mother of a black daughter, I’m under a high-power microscope. Knowing this, I’ve put great emphasis into caring for Ruby’s hair, taking pride in its versatility so that she will, too. I’ve applied the generous advice, recommendations and instruction of my black friends and even strangers I’ve approached upon seeing a style I like.
Sometimes I leave Ruby’s hair in a Big Natural, a broad halo perfectly framing her heart-shaped face. I’ve learned to weave Ruby’s locks into soft coils, loose twists, swinging braids, full puffs and creative combinations of all those styles. I part her hair meticulously so the many intersections create starburst-like patterns on her head and there’s an undeniable feeling of accomplishment when I’m done with my creation. Instead of criticism, I’ve been praised—and earned respect, I think—for my handiwork.
I’m often asked—mostly by white people—whether it’s hard to do her hair, and I answer honestly: It’s not difficult. It’s just different. Of course, the combing is a challenge since my girl is tender-headed. Arriving at “the kitchen”—the most sensitive part of her head where easily tangled hairs grow at the nape of her neck—is always the worst. My child actress cries in mere anticipation of pain, fat tears flying horizontally from her eyes, head thrown back in self-preservation.
But once we get past the comb-out, she’ll sit patiently for elaborate styling generally dictated by her taste. “Braids!” She might shout, even going so far as to tell me, “Lots of braids!” Or she’ll say, “Two low puffs, mama,” instructing me where to place them. She’ll pick from a jumbled collection of colored balls, pastel snaps and felted bands to adorn her hair, and she selects barrettes when we’re out shopping. She recently deliberated with several hmmmms before choosing glittery red clips over purple butterflies. By letting her steer me, I hope to instill a sense of control, creativity, ownership and autonomy.
While we used to perform our ritual with her stationed on her changing table, these days she nestles between my knees, me on the couch, her seated low in front of me, her arms draped over my thighs, the video du jour offering distraction. As if her tears were connected to a spigot, my babe regains her composure the second I hand her the comb to put away.
I work my fingers through her hair, kneading her scalp with shea butter or coconut oil, stopping now and again to land the irresistible kiss on the crown of her head. This hair time is ours, and it’s precious. It’s also as close as I’ll ever come to giving her an authentic African-American cultural experience, and my efforts have resulted in important connections to the black community, connections I’ll need to provide my child with more of what I—as a white woman—cannot possibly give her.
Already, Ruby takes pride in her hair. She begs to look in the three-way mirror when we’re done, inspecting her ’do from all angles. She shakes her braids from side to side, eyes squeezed tight, and smiles at the noise from all the clips smacking together in a rhythm she creates. I like seeing her happy about her hair and know that our design tells a true story about how much she is adored.
(As published today in San Diego CityBeat.)
29 responses so far ↓
1 Twists & turns: A story of hair and identity | Hairstyles for Men and Women // Apr 16, 2008 at 7:07 am
[...] Ian wrote an interesting post today onHere’s a quick excerptThen she follows it, while shaking her head slowly, with “No hair, mama. No hair today.” Generally speaking, I comply with her first request and override her second because the former is reasonable while the latter is non-negotiable. … [...]
2 Jenn @ Juggling Life // Apr 16, 2008 at 7:40 am
I used to babysit for a little girl who had such a conflicted relationship with her hair. She used to drape long strands of yarn over her head to be long hair. When I watched her for a week I got an education in doing her hair. It was quite an eye-opening experience.
This is a really great piece of writing. It will be wonderful for Ruby to read some day.
3 Tina // Apr 16, 2008 at 8:14 am
Beautiful, my friend! I love everything you said here - spot on.
And Ruby and Nadia must share notes because our hair routines sound eerily similar.
4 Dylan // Apr 16, 2008 at 8:24 am
Although my daughter isn’t black, we had a lot of trouble with hair, somewhat similar to what you describe. At some pointed I invented the “if your hair’s pulling and you know it” game - I sing (loosely to the tune of “if you’re happy and you know it”, in case it wasn’t obvious) while brushing, giving her different things to do from making a funny face to stomping one foot to naming one of her cousins to whatever happens to pop into my head. Normally the instructions don’t involve things that result in her moving her head away from where I’m brushing, but sometimes I’ll pause for one (’jump up and down’ or ’spin around’).
5 Jenn // Apr 16, 2008 at 9:13 am
the care with which you comb Ruby’s hair, and craft these words, is such a testament to your love for her. … I’m stunned….
6 Cheri // Apr 16, 2008 at 9:26 am
As Laura got out of the car for school today, I realized that she’d neither brushed her hair or teeth . . . so I should not comment on this post. Oops! I hear the doorbell. Probably Child Protective Services . . .
XOXOXO
P.S. We use Valium for trimming Laura’s nails in our house. And by we, I mean “I.” It’s always somethin’ with kids. What a beautifully told story. You have a lovely way of document real life, and as you share with us, you save these stories for Ruby. See, I just slid my comment in under the P.S. I can’t be trusted to shut up.
7 Angel // Apr 16, 2008 at 10:24 am
This is lovely Aaryn…I was instantly taken back to the hours as I spent as a child, sitting on the floor, between some woman (mom, grandma, aunt, you chose) in my families legs, dreading the combing of “the kitchen” but then so proud of the masterpiece they had created just my hair, ribbons, coconut oil. patience and love.
8 melanie // Apr 16, 2008 at 11:47 am
Wow, I know I always say this and you’d think I could come up with something new and creative to say, but…you really are a gifted writer. This is such a wonderful piece and I think it’s so wonderful of you to do this for her. Of course, it also makes me feel a little lucky because my kids CAN just jump up and go in the morning without worrying too much about their hair. Half the time I don’t think they even brush it. I am sure as she grows older she will appreciate the effort that you are making and love you even more for it.
Have a great day and thanks so much for the fave on my giraffe pic on Flickr the other day
9 Lorena // Apr 16, 2008 at 12:05 pm
I’m not African-American, but I’ve got my own hair trauma stories, too. I’ve always had really long hair, but it was always a painful chore when someone (my mother, my aunts, my father, girlfriends, etc.) did my hair for me. Painful memories those, which included hair pulling, accumulated hours of detangling, an indescribable tightness of the scalp and day-long headaches from a too-tight ‘do. Of course, in my family, you always looked proper, no matter where or what you were doing, so there was (and still is) my morning hair ritual. Thankfully, it’s much less painful now that I do it myself!
Anyway, I think your piece really speaks to how our personal identities can be created by something as simple as hair. Nicely done!
10 san // Apr 16, 2008 at 1:19 pm
Wow. So great you wrote about this. I have actually wondered, looking at some of Ruby’s cute photos, what it must be like to do her hair… now I know
11 Apostol Apostolopoulos // Apr 17, 2008 at 3:09 am
because I sat between the legs of an angry white woman…the years of her self hatred pouring into me, I have to say I never let a comb near my head today. Because unlike you to Ruby, she not once kissed my child head, my hair is “The great Obsession”…yet no comb, nor brush comes near.
Thank you Aaryn, for giving me a touchstone. You have emerged as such an amazing writer through the years.
12 KelliSD // Apr 17, 2008 at 8:01 am
As the mother of a mixed race daughter - I know exactly what you are going through. I am a white girl with thick straight hair so I was not well versed in the black girl styling requirements. She is 13 now but when she was younger it was a struggle to get the hair done. Her older brother has worn dred locks since he was little & she wore them for 2 years at the end of elementary school. She decided at the beginning of school last year to cut them off & begged me to get her hair relaxed. So now we have a Sunday evening routine of ironing her hair straight. Her hair is healthly & growing out well. Great commentary!
13 ramblings in between » a few recommendations // Apr 17, 2008 at 11:54 am
[...] Twists & turns: A story of hair and identity by Aaryn Belfer | her daughter [...]
14 aaryn b. // Apr 17, 2008 at 12:58 pm
Jenn: Thank you!
Tina: Thank you! I miss you so much. Would love to get the kids together and talk about hair and photography…or maybe we need to do that sans babes?
Dylan: That game is very creative and I may give it a shot. Thank you.
Jenn and Cheri: Thank you both.
Angel: Your comment made me cry. Thank you for coming here, following Ruby’s progress and weighing in. It means a lot knowing that what I’ve written rings true for you because that means I’m on the right track. Sending lots of love, as always!
Melanie: Thank you so very much for the compliments on my writing. I’m flattered. And it makes me want to keep stabbing at it.
Lorena: I do know that people of all races struggle with their hair and clearly this touched some memory for you. Thanks for the comment.
Sandra: As always, many thanks. Glad I could give you a window into my world. Another one. There are so many. I’d better not start throwing any stones…
Apostl: I cannot tell you how your comment made my heart wither. It is such the opposite experience that you deserved, that any child deserves and I’m so sorry for that. You deserved to be loved and caressed and kissed on your head just like your children do, and I’m sure you’re making up for your mother’s shortcomings by doing better with them. I know it. I wish I could say something to take the bitterness away but that’s beyond my capabilities. My heart goes out to you. Also, thank you for coming back (still! you’ve got to be one of my most faithful readers and I cannot believe you’re not sick of me yet) and for the compliments.
KelliSD: Thanks for the comment. Sounds like the rituals change and grow as our daughters do. The boys are much easier, I think. At least, that’s my perspective from here. I’m curious to know, when you cut your daughters dreds, how short was her hair? Did she get teased? Ridiculed?
IN SHORT (or long): Thanks to each of you for the comments. I appreciate all of what you had to say.
15 Mrs. G. // Apr 17, 2008 at 6:20 pm
Between this amazing post and that video of Ruby and the dog (which I’ve sat and watched with each member of my family), I just have to say I feel the love, and it is beautiful.
See you at the Pink Door in Dec.
16 bonzize // Apr 17, 2008 at 6:56 pm
Everything about this piece is beautiful-images, language, feelking. You continue to be a piece of my heart. yfgm
17 bonzize // Apr 17, 2008 at 6:57 pm
Er…that word is supposed to be feeling. blush, blush.
18 amelia // Apr 17, 2008 at 8:20 pm
I’m going to guess (and this is just a guess) that “different” plays a role in this as well as race. My parents divorced when I was 4 years old, and we remained with my father. Although my father and I are both white, my hair was a mess. He never realized that I, at the age of 4, was not going to brush and take care of my hair, that it was up to him. I have very thin hair, it tangles very easily. But he’s a guy. So after one too many times of knots in my hair, and the tears that came with it, he just had my hair cut short so he didn’t have to deal with it. He then took us with him on a business trip to Italy. I was called a “little boy” the whole time. Now that’s just great for a young girl who has just gone through her parents divorce. Pile it on, why don’t you?
Anyway, A. Great writing, as always. It’s amazing how your sensitivity and mastery of language can bring up old memories and at the same time, make me feel an amazing connection to your daughter.
hugs.
19 shalene // Apr 18, 2008 at 7:31 am
Aaryn-
I have been a ‘lurker’ on your blog for a long time-ummm….a year and half maybe? Time to reveal myself. Anyway, I am always moved by your vulnerability in your joy and pain and given courage by your honesty. As an aspiring adoptive mother to Kenyan babies, I look forward to some day being able to share in these experiences more deeply with you. Thank you.
20 Jennifer // Apr 18, 2008 at 11:31 am
I always love your writing but this piece was magnificent. I didn’t even realize it was your column until the end! What a treasure of a memories you’ve written for Ruby. I can picture you sitting together doing her hair and her picking out what to put in it.
While I understand your comments about white kids hair, as an educator I know that society looks at kids and do once overs on their clothes, shoes, and hair, no matter what their race. Therefore, even though I have been told I can send H to daycare in the same clothes and not to worry about her mess of hair cowlicking in the back but hanging down past her eyes, I make sure her clothes match down to her socks and shoes and her hair is brushed and pulled back EVERY DAY. Since the daddy hands can’t quite do the hair, I have to get it down before I leave the house. At 18 months, she is beginning to get the routine and understand enough to say yes to a clip or pony holder.
I look forward to her voice emerging and creating moments like you have with Ruby with or without tears, it’s a very sweet moment.
21 Beth // Apr 21, 2008 at 8:02 am
I used to tell my Morrigan that getting hair done was just part of being a girl, I thought that explanation was working until she was brushing my hair one day and whacked me upside the head with the brush and exclaimed “Its part of being a girl Mama.”
I love that Ruby straight told you your logic was crazy! Don’t you love watching Ruby find her voice? Careful, the voice gets stronger & louder with age.
22 kerryanne // Apr 21, 2008 at 9:05 am
This was beautiful
23 kate // Apr 22, 2008 at 6:17 pm
you are brilliant. in your mothering, your hairstyling (hers and yours) and your writing.
24 Gretchen aka mamagigi // Apr 23, 2008 at 7:09 pm
Just lovely, Aaryn. You may recall our daughters are just a few weeks apart. Maeve’s bi-racial and her hair is different than Ruby’s, but it’s still worlds away from mine and what I’m used to. We, too, have the morning ritual of comb, squeals and “no knots today mommy!,” detangler and accessories — letting her hair go au natural just isn’t an option because you are right — it is all about ensuring that her white mama cares enough to make sure it’s taken care of. That she learns to take pride in it and care for it, to take pride in herself, too.
Brava on the column.
25 CrysH // Apr 28, 2008 at 2:32 pm
Reading your lovely piece took me back to my own childhood full of big combs and hair grease. Thankfully, I wasn’t tender-headed like Miss Ruby, nor is my hair as curly. For sure, the ritual of hair combing is definitely a genuine African American cultural tradition.
That said, it has taken me DECADES to shed my hair issues created by years of being told that I had to tame and subdue my hair. Too much of my youthful feelings of beauty was wrapped up in how my hair looked. You’re astute to notice that black mothers look at the heads of black children and judge the competence and love of their caregiver.
Nearly a decade ago, I finally embraced what India.Arie stated in her song, “I Am Not My Hair”.
Helping Ruby enjoy her hair, in all it’s beautiful and natural forms and styles, puts her way ahead of where I was, even into my college years.
I’m charmed, as always, by the two of you.
26 Bipolarlawyercook // May 1, 2008 at 7:18 am
So much love in this.
27 Linda Calvin // May 15, 2008 at 9:21 am
Aaryn - great story. I was happy and surprised because I am hosting a similar story on my blog. I just started my blog and have not had much time at all to post. lindacalvin.wordpress.com. My story is called the Twists and Turns of Biracial Hair. I am biracial and growing up, my mom knew nothing about how to style my hair. I wore picktails until my first relaxer at 12 years old. Unfortunately, my mother did not understand how relaxers at that time worked (lye relaxers) and she washed and thoroughly combed my hair the night before my relaxer. I cried like a baby.
Your story is very nice! Ruby is very lucky.
28 35 « 3 continent family // Jun 5, 2008 at 12:24 am
[...] one of my favorite posts ever [...]
29 gregory // Jun 5, 2008 at 1:38 am
I am so glad that I read this beautiful story today.
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