Nappy Journey

"MY Journey; Back to Freedom!!"

My own story seems to be a good place to start . . . .

I am soon to be 49 years old!! Wow almost a half a century!! Boy that time went fast. It has taken me the better part of 39 of those years to get BACK TO FREEDOM!

I was born around 6am November 22, 1952. With a "full head" of hair, I was told. You know the type of hair that the next thing out of some relative’s mouth is "well you know its not going to stay like that!" . . . "yeah and check those ears too!!!"

"Baby Hair" –soft, roll and curl it on your finger. Obedient hair. Hair that is envied, hair that most black folk pray will stay around. Well, my "Baby Hair" decided it would take flight somewhere around my 2^nd birthday. The Baby hair was out and Nappy was in!!

I remember my mother talking about trying to comb and braid my hair as a toddler. It was a chore. Squirming, crying, hands flying (both hers and mine). Finally, like most good mothers she resorted to trying to "tackle that Nappy head while I slept." Imagine laying your little head down for a nap, looking one way when you went to bed and waking up looking totally different! I often wonder if that process scared me or if somehow I was intrigued by the magic of it all!!

By the time I started kindergarten I had gotten used to a certain routine. Every day there was the same routine. "Sharon, go get the comb and hair grease". Mind you it wasn’t just any hair grease only Royal Crown and Dixie Peach would do. I preferred, the Dixie Peach, it smelled like fruit. Or did I just think it smelled like fruit because the word peach was in its name??? Anyway, my mother would pull up a kitchen chair in our small living room; put a pillow on the floor between her legs; point at the pillow with that black comb that had several teeth missing . . . gesturing for me to sit.

These were special times. We would talk about all kinds of things, School, my friends, her job, who was getting on and off her nerves. Occasionally I would be reminded to keep my head still by a swift "POP" to my scalp and a stern "KEEP STILL!"

There where only a few styles my mother’s nimble hands would bestow upon my head. There was the "quick get it done" 3 braids ..one to the side and two in the back. Or the "quick get it done but lets make it special" 3 braids. One to the side, two in the back with a perfect "rolled bang" in the front,(sometimes she would even add ribbons!!). There was the "church/special occasion "DO"’

A bang with two Braids criss- crossed at the top forming a crown. I liked that one. My mother didn’t know how to cornrow or French braid, (Why they call it French braiding when all it is an underhand cornrow I’ll never know) so she would do the four-braid illusion of a cornrow by parting the hair in four equal sections. Two at the top one either side of my head and connect the top and bottom of each side. Occasionally, she would put a barrette at the end. When she did that I could swing my hair from sided to side. . . . like the white girls! This was the extent of my Hair-Do’s until I was ten years old.

Ten!! Not only had I reached "the 2-numbers" but I could now get my hair straightened. YES!!!! I was excited. Finally, "Straightened Hair"- moving, flowing, straight desirable long hair!! I had no idea what I was getting myself in to. First, let me say my mother was not the best hair straightener. I remember watching her as she did her "touch-up around the edges". Touch-ups occurred in between her standing hairdresser appointment. . . . I’ll get back to those . . . . She would turn on the gas-stove, lower the flame and place that heavy cast iron comb on the stove. Heating it . . . "just a little", she would then take a little bit of hair grease and rub between her palms, smoothing it around her edges. By now the comb was "warm enough". Taking the comb off the burner, blowing on it and rubbing it between the folds of the old towel she would keep handy (I never saw that thing get washed!) . . . she would then stand in front of the bathroom mirror and proceed to "Touch-It-Up" . . . ..I could see the smoke and smell the "frying" of her hair. And then I heard, "%$'!!!! ,I burned myself! . . . Quick Sharon go get me some butter". Butter, the healer of all burns. I think it was suppose to help heal and possibly take care of scarring. So . . . there she would stand rubbing the butter on the already deeply reddening

spot . . . finishing her "Touch-up".

My turn! Feeling, excited, scared, concerned but wanting to be "beautiful" I was ready. Now understand that straightening or pressing "Virgin Hair" was different than a touch-up.

The process went something like this: First your "Head had to be washed" Hallo shampoo was what we used, later would come Prell. Halo, Heavenly Halo. Your hair was suppose to be like the white-female model on the black and white TV screen after you had used this product. Long, flowing, moving in a heavenly veil of clean BLOND?? Hair. Okay so my hair wouldn’t be blond (my actual color when I was young was a "light, reddish, blondish brown" A "Sandy color" my mom would say. Later she said it turned to a Chestnut brown. I think that was from the straightening or maybe later . . . . the permming . . . or who knows, maybe it turned colors naturally.

My mother would pull-up a kitchen chair to the sink for me to kneel on as she washed my hair . . . Everything would be lined up. The Halo shampoo, a towel or two, the black comb with the missing teeth, that pink brush with the incredibly hard bristles, the "Dixie Peach", some wave clamps, a few rubber bands, the strengthening comb and its accompanying "wipe towel". With all the tools of the trade in place she was ready to do battle!

"Is the water too hot?" she would ask as I bent over the running faucet. A muffled "no" would usually be my response. ‘What" . . . .I can’t hear you", she would often say. I’d try again lifting my face which was being held by my hands . . . hands that held a towel totally covering my face so that I wouldn’t get the "Soap" from the shampoo in my eyes) It’s a wonder I didn’t suffocate!! I held that thing so tight across my face. NO! I’d yell . . . ."girl don’t raise your voice at me! . . . bend over" And the process would begin anew.

The water felt good running over my head. I remember that my ‘Virgin-Hair" resisted the water. It took a while before I felt the water reach my scalp. But when it did . . . ah, Nirvana! "Look at those waves, Umm . . . . too bad it won’t stay that way" My mother would say. I was thinking what waves??? I had waves! . . . you mean like the "good hair my cousins had". Why won’t they stay" . . . Oh yeah!! I forgot I had Nappy Hair . . . not that good Grade –A hair my cousins had. Oh well!!! Let’s get back to the process.