Ibby Arya
April 15, 2019
Perspectives in Literature
Vanishing into Thin (H)air:
Black Women’s Fight against the Oppression of Their Natural Hair in America
In August of 2018, an 11-year-old Black girl named Faith Fennidy was told she must go home from school because of her braided hair extensions. A video shows the Louisiana sixth grader crying as she packs up her books in the middle of class, her education compromised because of a discriminatory school policy. She was later asked not to come back at all (Jacobs and Levin). This recent incident is not an isolated one; historically, women and girls have utilized their hair as a tool to express their femininity and freedom, while oppressors have taken advantage of it in order to suppress and silence them. Hair continues to play a dynamic and influential role in society, as it allows women the opportunity to reclaim their identity and body as unique, and most importantly, their own. The social significance and constructs of hair have also led it to become a compelling symbol of both empowerment, such as the natural hair movement in the Black community during the 1960s and 1970s, and dehumanization, like the story of Faith Fennidy. Black women, in particular, have relied upon their personal relationship with and public presentation of their hair as a weapon to strengthen cultural connections or else assimilate into the dominant culture. In Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s novel, Americanah, and in Zora Neale Hurston’s Their Eyes Were Watching God, characters express their relationship with self and society through hairstyle. These themes also appear in many other literary works and art pieces, which can be further understood through the lens of Robert Stepto’s theory of the “Ascent Narrative” and “Immersion (Neo)Slave Narrative,” published in his 1979 book, From Behind the Veil: A Study of Afro-American Narrative. Stepto, a professor of African American studies, asserts that Black autobiographies tend to follow one of two basic trajectories: which can be categorized as an “ascent” if the protagonist moves from slavery to freedom, pursuing the “least oppressive social structure” available to them, or an “immersion” if the narrator returns to the South and confronts the physical space in which they were enslaved in order to reconnect with their roots, family, and past (Stepto 167). Although Stepto has identified these contrasting paradigms in relation to slave narratives, they also support specific aspects of the Black woman’s relationship with her hair in America and communicate broader themes of historical, cultural, and sexual identity. In this essay, I will explore the history of Black hair in America and how hair motivates Black women to reclaim history, as well as the ways in which hair can either make or break one’s cultural bonds and empower or disempower women’s sexuality.
Beginning with slavery, white people have controlled Black women’s hair in order to dehumanize them and deny them access to their African heritage. One of the first steps taken to disempower Black women after being captured was to cut off their hair (White). In West Africa, specifically, unique hairstyles and intricate headdresses symbolized one’s status and tribe, making hair an important visual marker of every person’s background (Jahangir). Forcible head shaving, then, effectively destroyed cultural connections and indications. In Harriet Jacobs’s autobiography, Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl, her master, Dr. Flint, uses hair as a means of enforcing authority and maintaining control. When Linda, the pseudonym that Jacobs has chosen for herself in the narrative, tells Dr. Flint of her pregnancy, he
“rushed from the house, and returned with a pair of shears. I had a fine head of hair; and he often railed about my pride of arranging it nicely. He cut every hair close to my head, storming and swearing all the time. I replied to some of his abuse, and he struck me” (Jacobs 99).
Instead of responding by inflicting physical pain upon Linda, Dr. Flint’s immediate reaction is to cut off her hair. Linda deems his action an “abuse” - although this does not reflect a typical form of violence against a slave, such as a whipping or beating, it exemplifies the mental suffering and powerlessness that hair-cutting creates by eradicating a sense of personhood. Controlling a woman’s hair, a deeply intimate aspect of her identity, provided owners with an increased ability to reject the humanity and individuality of their slaves.
Although the history of hair in America is fraught with violence and persecution, Black women have begun to rewrite it by including themselves in positions of linguistic and artistic power that were previously inaccessible to them, which behaves as a type of ascent narrative. The word “nappy” came into being during slavery. Although it originally referred to the texture of cotton, a common cash crop on southern plantations, it was coined as a derogatory term to describe slaves’ natural hair (Dictionary.com). Comparing women’s hair to cotton created a connection between their bodies and slave labor, implying that their personal identity and expression relied upon their forced, foremost status as a slave. Since slavery, however, many Black women have used social media platforms to begin reclaiming this word as one of appreciation and respect for their natural hair texture. The history of the term “nappy” is important in identifying the significance of its current usage; it acts as an opportunity to validate Black beauty and redefine their personal relationship with their hair. This relates to Stepto’s ascent paradigm because “he or she has gained sufficient literacy to assume the mantle of articulate survivor.” Initially, “nappy” was thrust upon Black women as a pejorative label, but reclaiming it provides them with increased power and agency over their bodies, as well as an powerful vocabulary to identify and discuss their history of oppression. Black women have also created art that honors their natural hair. In the series The Golden Age, for example, modern artist Alanna Airitam photographs Black people whose attire, posture, and environment are intentionally evocative of Renaissance portraits. The photographs’ titles reference saints or queens, and their elegant clothes also reflect high status. Pairing these two things with the models’ natural hair rejects society’s usual claims that Black hair is unprofessional, unclean, and worthless. This allows Black women to gain agency over their stories and histories, rising “from anonymity to public prominence,” a trait of the ascent narrative that author Lynn Orilla Scott has recognized. By applying western imperial traditions of art to her work with African American subjects, Airitam forces her viewer to confront art’s eurocentric history and allows Black people to occupy roles previously dominated by white people. Language and art enable Black women to resist historical misrepresentation and marginalization.
In an attempt to follow the ascent narrative by changing their hair, the desire to assimilate and appear agreeable in white society can separate Black women from their culture. Americanah’s main character, Ifemelu, chooses to conform to white beauty standards upon moving to the United States from her home country of Nigeria. Faced with immense pressure from other Black women, including her aunt and career counselor, she relaxes her hair prior to a job interview. The process, which is dangerous and painful, leaves Ifemelu unable to recognize herself: “the smell of burning, of something organic dying which should not have died, had made her feel a sense of loss” (Adichie 251). Although it has many negative effects on her health, Ifemelu notices and responds to white cultural preferences and inclinations by relaxing her hair. In the ascent narrative, Stepto defines “self-mastery” as one’s growth towards becoming “a more aware, acute observer and interpreter of society, especially in regard to political, social, [and] educational...institutions.” However absurd and unfounded this preference for straight hair may be, Ifemelu recognizes the natural hair bias that exists in the American workplace and relaxes her hair in order to appear more qualified for the position. When forced to choose between her career and her culture, she prioritizes the option most urgent and imperative to her immediate economic security. In the end, she attributes her offer of employment to her newly straightened hair rather than her intellectual aptitude. In his documentary, Good Hair, Chris Rock asks Black students at Santa Monica High School if they believe it is conceivable to become employed without wearing a weave or relaxing their hair. One of these girls admits that “if somebody came into my office with an afro... and a suit, that just seems really out of place. It’s like a contradiction.” Another has accepted that “Executives...aren’t going to take you seriously.” These opinions illustrate how negative perceptions of natural hairstyles and textures manifest in the workplace and have become internalized among Black youth. While relaxing their hair for white audiences certainly deprives characters and real people of aspects of their identity and worth, another characteristic of the ascent trajectory, it also provides them with increased financial opportunities.
In contrast, Black women’s experiences with their hair might also promote a culture of shared identity, which parallels the immersion narrative by encouraging the formation of deep cultural bonds. Shortly after Ifemelu straightens her hair, it begins to fall out as a result of the chemical treatment and she must reverse the relaxer. Although she does not initially cut her hair in a conscious attempt to liberate herself from white norms and expectations, it becomes an eventual source of pride and power for Ifemelu. According to Scott, “the protagonist of the immersion narrative finds sustenance by a return to cultural roots, represented by…family and community” (Scott 36). Ifemelu becomes an active member on a blog called happilykinkynappy.com, where she establishes a support network and is given a safe, comfortable platform to share about her relationship with her hair. This online community validates her identity in a society that oftentimes denies her natural beauty. For Ifemelu, “posting on the website was like giving testimony in church; the echoing roar of approval revived her” (Adichie 264). The website and her hair embody a holy and sacred meaning for Ifemelu, which emphasizes how integral hair is in creating her own self-image and influencing her relationship with her entire body. In addition to the website, barber shops act as a space of shared culture. Americanah begins with Ifemelu’s trip to the salon to get her hair braided, and moments from this experience are woven throughout the novel. This place is one of the few available for West-African women to gather with one another and share aspects of their culture, such as language, food, and of course, hairstyle. Chris Rock films his visits to Black barber shops throughout Good Hair and observes that “some of the best conversations happen [here].” Along with the cultural connections they foster, hair salons also provide economic opportunities for Black people, who do not need to have a college education in order to become employed and excel in the field. In fact, one of the first American females to become a self-made millionaire, Madame C.J. Walker, was a Black woman who created safe products for African American hair (Biography.com). Whether online or in real life, communities centered around Black hair promote cultural growth and sharing.
Stereotypes about Black hair represent another source of disempowerment in regards to women’s sexual identity. Two traditional and persisting archetypes of Black women, the Jezebel and the Mammy, provide harmful sources of comparison. The Jezebel, associated with prostitution, immorality, and hypersexualization, is often portrayed as a light-skinned woman with “long, straight hair” (Pilgrim). This draws a connection between sexuality, skin color, and hairstyle, suggesting that Black women’s sexual desirability depends on being biracial or light-skinned, and having straight hair. The Mammy, on the other hand, is depicted as a loving and patient figure who raises white children. Unlike the Jezebel, the Mammy stereotype conjures up an image of a very large Black woman who wears “a kerchief to hide that dreadful kinky hair” (Jardim). White people “deliberately constructed” the Mammy as ugly, old, and obese in order to deprive her of all sexuality and sensuality (Pilgrim). In the eyes of many, her natural hair supports her obvious unattractiveness. This sends a clear message that natural-haired Black women are considerably less attractive than their straight-haired counterparts, and should be so ashamed of their hair that they must cover it. These fictionalized caricatures prevail in our minds and impact the way Black hair is viewed in the media today.
While stereotypes do serve to suppress women’s sexuality, hair can also be used to express Black sexual freedom in terms of the ascent narrative. In Their Eyes Were Watching God, Janie decides to let her hair down after her husband, Jody Starks, dies. Controlling and abusive, Starks previously forbade her from wearing her hair down because he desired complete ownership over her. Right after his death, Janie’s first reaction is to look at her reflection in the bedroom mirror:
The young girl was gone, but a handsome woman had taken her place. She tore off the kerchief from her head and let down her plentiful hair. The weight, the length, the glory was there. She took careful stock of herself, then combed her hair and tied it back up again (Hurston 87).
Here, untying her hair and letting it out of the handkerchief symbolizes her newfound liberty and independence. This indicates Janie’s “ritualized journey” and “increasingly free” reality that Stepto describes in his first narrative; she begins to lead a life of “solitude” that grants her mental stability and confidence (Stepto 167). Janie serves as a figure of ascent by actively choosing to free her hair and later burning all of her head rags. She rejects ideas set forth in the Mammy stereotype, such as the notion that women must shield their natural hair in public. Jody forced her to tie up her hair to prevent other men from sexualizing her, but letting it go free after his death is a brave act of reclaiming her sexuality and restoring her femininity.
Black women’s relationship with their hair often impacts their understanding and appreciation of their history, culture, and sexuality. This journey towards acceptance of their hair does not have to be linear in order for it to be meaningful. Embracing one’s hair, whether it be natural or relaxed, is an act of revolution against systemic oppression in and of itself. Reclaiming the beauty and versatility of Black hair has the potential to dismantle white beauty standards. It also encourages Black women to celebrate their identity and unlearn destructive stereotypes. Black women are able to claim their natural hair as their own form of freedom in order to embody specific elements of their history, culture, and sexuality. Stepto’s theory of the African American ascent and immersion narrative helps to analyze and support the role of Black hair in historical and cultural spheres. In the same way that “slave narratives aim at educating white audiences and act as models of hope for black society,” the literature and art that this essay has considered send a powerful message that teaches white people, and reminds Black people, that natural hair is valid, beautiful, and deserving of positive representation in the media. “I love my hair because it’s a reflection of my soul,” actress Tracee Ellis Ross once declared about her natural curls. “It’s dense, it’s kinky, it’s soft, it’s textured, it’s difficult, it’s easy and it’s fun.”
Works Cited
Adichie, Chimamanda Ngozi. Americanah. Anchor Books, 2013.
Hurston, Zora Neale. Their Eyes Were Watching God. Harper Perennial Modern Classics, 2006.
Jacobs, Harriet A. Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl. The Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2009.
Jacobs, Julia, and Dan Levin. “Black Girl Sent Home From School Over Hair Extensions.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 22 Aug. 2018, www.nytimes.com/2018/08/21/us/black-student-extensions-louisiana.html.
Jahangir, Rumeana. “How Does Black Hair Reflect Black History?” BBC News, BBC, 31 May 2015, www.bbc.com/news/uk-england-merseyside-31438273.
Jardim, Suzane. “Recognizing Racist Stereotypes in U.S. Media.” Medium, Medium, 26 July 2016, medium.com/@suzanejardim/reconhecendo-esteri%C3%B3tipos-racistas-internacionais-b00f80861fc9.
Lemoine, Alexa. “What Does Nappy Hair Mean?” Dictionary.com, Dictionary.com, 12 Apr. 2019, www.dictionary.com/e/slang/nappy-hair/.
“Madam C.J. Walker.” Biography.com, A&E Networks Television, 10 Apr. 2019, www.biography.com/people/madam-cj-walker-9522174.
Rock, Chris. Good Hair. Roadside Attractions, 2009.
Scott, Lynn Orilla. James Baldwin's Later Fiction: Witness to the Journey. Michigan State University Press, 2002.
Stepto, Robert B. From behind the Veil: A Study of Afro-American Narrative. University of Illinois Press, 1979.
“The Jezebel Stereotype.” The Jezebel Stereotype - Anti-Black Imagery - Jim Crow Museum - Ferris State University, www.ferris.edu/jimcrow/jezebel/.
“The Mammy Caricature.” The Mammy Caricature - Anti-Black Imagery - Jim Crow Museum - Ferris State University, www.ferris.edu/HTMLS/news/jimcrow/mammies/homepage.htm.
Wallace, Tracey. “Tracee Ellis Ross Launches Hair Love Campaign.” NaturallyCurly.com, 21 June 2013, www.naturallycurly.com/curlreading/kinky-hair-type-4a/tracee-ellis-ross-launches-hair-love-campaign.
White, Shane, and Graham White. “Slave Hair and African American Culture in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries.” The Journal of Southern History, Feb. 1995, pp. 45–76.