Chanell J. Wilson - Identity?: A Black Girls Hair Memoir

By Chanell J. Wilson

Published by Chanell J. Wilson atSmashwords

Copyright 2013 Chanell J. Wilson

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This memoir is a work of non-fiction. Thenames and some places have been left out for privacy.This ebook islicensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not bere-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to sharethis book with another person, please purchase an additional copyfor each recipient. If youre reading this book and did notpurchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then pleasereturn to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you forrespecting the hard work of this author.

I dedicate this Memoir to my four youngersisters. I have watched all of you grow from newborn babies tobeautiful young teenagers and women.

I am inspired by all ofyou.....

I look in the mirror I pause,

Turn my head:

right side, left side.

Bat my lashes, smile a bit, give myself thesexy eye....

Playing with my camera phone hoping, wishing,gawking,

Trying, fronting.....

My image amuses me

What am I looking for?

I think, I am looking for...

... identity?

What am I searching for...

... My Dignity?

Through this mirror, through this terror I amlost,

all alone,

trying to find my own

I just want to belong, I just want tobelong!

Cant you help me find my..... Identity?

2010 by Chanell J. Wilson

I had reached a fake hair wearing plateau. After seven months ofwearing braids, weaves, and wig styles; I knew my scalp needed abreak. As I touched my unprocessed new growth; I contemplated mynext hair direction. First, the anxiety crept in my mind. Then,came the indecisive headache. My original goal was to wear mynatural unprocessed hair and style it. However, the return of the1980's asymmetrical Bob Hair cut peeked my interest so high; that Iwas leaning towards throwing my original goal out of thewindow.

Like a voyeur, I gawked at images of stackedhair bouncing into geometric shapes, layers and angles. It was allvery fascinating. It was also all very perplexing. Thoughts ofsitting in my hairdresser's chair; invoked a smile on my face. Thepoetic imagery of the Hair Salon process was all coming back to me.I could hear the snipping sounds of hair cut with scissors, therazor of the clippers tapering my neckline, and the singe from thecurling iron when it came in contact with holding sprits. I oncewore that Bob. And like a guitarist on a stage, I could rock thatlook. I was already in a Cold War; wrestling with two hair ideals.I had declared battle on the lye enemy and succeeded in getting theperm out of my hair. Now, I wanted to straighten it for style!"Well color me Blue? How do I do this?" , I wondered. The internalbattle was on!

For my preference sake, my hair is happiestwhen it is natural. For identity's sake, I am happiest when I amstylistically free. I had to get to the bottom of this hair crisisbefore this hair crisis got to the bottom of me. As a black womanin America, I had this constant feeling that I needed to provesomething. I never lived during Slavery; but I was born supposedly"free". I never faced Jim Crow lynch mobs or sat through The Mammyand Pica-ninny Minstrel shows; but I did grow up during turf warsamongst black and mexican youth, gold teeth wearing teens, and theHot Boys telling women to "back that thing up". I never experiencedSegregation or had to protest through a civil rights demonstration;but on a daily I struggled (and hustled) within my working classand tried to reinvent new ways to shift my placement on theAmerican Totem Poll. I just want to be apart of this TechnicoloredAmerican Dream and Advance to something with substance.

"Would I regret another perm?", "Would Ilet my people down or disrespect my ancestors if I give into mystyle?", "Would I be viewed as a sell out for going back to thelye?", "Would I be viewed as too militant by holding on to myafro?". "Who was my enemy; the lye or my mindset?". Iinternally screamed at all the schizophrenic questions. It was justhair! It could be here today or easily gone tomorrow. It could thengrow back within months or sewn or glued onto my scalp for a quickextended effect. Keeping up was confusing.

I could not simply improvise this repair. Icould not just wash my hair and hope for the best. I had todismantle my ideals, troubleshoot the broken pieces of my past andfix them, so that I could work properly and stand confidentially.It was time to do some soul searching and face the mirror ofIdentity.

What am I looking for.....Identity?

Chanell, age 3 with ponytails and pink spongeroller.

Texture....Coarse. When I looked up these twowords in the dictionary; these were some of the definitions Ifound:

"Texture-the visual and especially tactilequality of a surface.

Coarse-lacking in fineness or delicacy oftexture, structure, harsh, grating."

As a child, these two words were added to myvocabulary; not by a teacher in a Language Arts class; but by thelife altering experiences of using pressing combs and wearingponytails. The rules of regimen and hair prep were as followed:When swimming, wear a swim cap; when going to bed at night, weara headscarf; and if a headscarf cannot be found, put a pair ofstockings or tie some clean underwear around the head. Whateverdone, do not sleep without the scarf! If the scarf fell off, I wokeup in terror that my coarse texture was back!

From age three to 13, after school activitieswere dancing and swimming. As a dancer, I performed ballet, jazz,and tap routines at local recitals and regional competitions. Inthe beginning, I was like a Toddlers and Tiaras doll; face filledwith make up, body dressed in hula outfits,tutus, and sequencecostumes, and hair pressed and curled with either a Farrah FaucetFlip or Shirley Temple Curled Tendrils. Through various encounterswith dancers of different ethnicities and racial backgrounds; mymind grew curious about the diverse world around me. I knew I wasan American and lived in the Land of the Free; but I alwayswondered, What does that mean in regards to my black identity?.There was a European Standard set before me and as I began tocomprehend it; my battle with myself began.

Life as a dancer; required 20% mechanics and 80%stage presence. The art had to flow from the heart of the dancerand cast an inspirational impression to the audience. Connectingduring the performance, was a piece of cake; but the preparationrequired big girl panties and intestinal fortitude. In my class;there were only two black girls: myself and my cousin. Every oneelse was white or some other non-black ethnicity. Their hair flowedand combed into a side ponytail with a simple brush and water.While our hair (my cousin and I), required a lot more technique andmechanics. Like unsung artisans; our stage-moms styled our hair sothat the two of us blended with the other ladies duringperformance.