Hair-raising Issues

To be or "knot" to be...that is the question

Usually I’m not this topical, preferring to rant about the personal rather than the public, but the stars – and the media – converged when I found that yesterday was apparently National Real Hair Day.  According to Tyra Banks, at least, when she doffed the weave and the lace-front to show America her “real hair”.  Hah!  Let me tell you about REAL hair.

My hair is a disobedient dog.  It stands there when you tell it to sit, ignoring you even when you push its rump to the floor.  The color is fading and even when I feed and groom it, its not as animated as it used to be.  It goes where it wants, indoors or out, and generally exasperates me to the point that I want to get rid of it.  Then I look at it, scratch it behind the ears and promise to let it go another week.

If you recognize this relationship, you may have natural(ly curly) hair.

For the majority of my life, I wore my hair straight:  a “press and curl”, relaxer, flat iron.  (For my Caucasian friends, my hair is not like yours.   Its generally textured and requires hours of chemical/heat processing and some kind of grease, elbow or otherwise, to get that bouncin’ and behavin’ look you may take for granted.)  This is not a complaint, as I happily performed the requisite styling ritual from age 7 to 35 and was very good at it.  I could shampoo, blowdry and curl my very thick shoulder-length hair in 45 minutes from start to finish.  If you’ve ever had your hands in my hair, you know that’s impressive.  I never knew my natural hair texture since I booked it to the salon religiously for my retouch.  (Another aside for my Caucasian sisters:  having 2 textures of hair  - kinky and straight – is bad for styling and for hair breakage, so we get a “perm” – not the curly kind – every 6-8 weeks)

To continue the canine metaphor, by age 35 my hair had begun to play dead.  It was unresponsive, bored, listless, and overprocessed from relaxing and permanent haircolor – grey get thee behind me!  I sported a ponytail nearly every day, which is

After "The Big Chop"...see how happy I am?

when most people decide to go for a haircut.  On my 35th birthday, I shampooed my beyond shoulder-length bob, and went to work.  At lunchtime I pulled a Britney, and returned with a closely-shorn Afro!  Somewhere inside my head that day was the desire to get rid of things I didn’t need, like the guy I was seeing at the time who couldn’t bother to wish me a happy birthday.  Also, I’d thought about it for a while, and the other women in the office with naturals pulled me over the edge.  It was fantastic: no muss, no fuss, and thick curly ringlets…who knew?

Fast forward to 2009.   I’m unemployed, no longer working in Ethnic Haircare, and I’ve gone 0 for 3 with the hair, which I’ve cut off 3 times since “the big chop”.  I have dreams of a huge Angela Davis ‘fro with a pick sticking out the back, you know the kind with the fist.  I even own one.  But I have no patience, which one needs when attempting to deal with new hair, and I’m off to the barber on wings of frustration.  As we speak, I’m sporting some mean Bantu knots (thanks, Dana!) and fighting the urge for yet another cut.

You may be asking, who the hell cares about your hair when there are so many important things going on?  First, hair is very important to women, especially Black women.  And to White men who are going bald but insist on clinging to scraps.  Anyway, Black hair holds sociopolitical significance, to wit my reference to an Angela Davis Afro which likely conjures images of revolution and protest along with her signature spherical ‘do.  In the ’60s, Black women stopped straightening to make the statement, “Black is beautiful” in all its natural shades and forms.  In the ’80s and ’90s, we sort of gave up on all that and looked to Clair Huxtable’s silky locs as an image of corporate success.  Lately, with the proliferation of styling methods and individual fashion, dreadlocs are becoming mainstream-ish and Black women of all walks of life are walking away from chemical straightening.  A few years ago, an editor at a top fashion magazine was fired for telling a group of female attorneys that Black women had to wear straight hair to be professional.  Now, with a Black woman in the White House, Time magazine and The New York Times are talking about why Michelle’s hair matters.  Not to mention the recent outcry over the inappropriateness of Malia’s twists for an overseas visit.  The only remotely comparable hair hub-bub was Jen Aniston’s signature “Rachel” cut, but nobody thought it was some pro-Greek statement about her heritage; it was just fashion.

The hair was healthy here, after 4 months of braids and a 3-inch haircut. I miss it about once a year.

Admittedly, my decision to go natural was about getting healthy hair and a strong curiosity about what my God-given texture actually was.  And, of course, using permanent haircolor to get rid of the grey – let’s be real!  But now that I’ve done it, I’m not going back.  I’ve worn braids and twists for convenience, but I haven’t worn my hair straight since July 12, 2007.   Even the idea of wearing braids with straight hair feels egregious to me: the point of fake hair is to mimic your real hair, not to fake the funk.  My hair has become my personal statement as much as my personal statement.  But I’m not hating on my relaxed sisters; you do you and I’ll do me.

Into this melee of consciousness comes my need for a new job, and my fear that my hair will somehow be inappropriate.  After all, the MBA machine taught me how to fit in, wear the blue suit and say what I have to say to get the job.  The recession has brought out career coaches as talking heads reminding us that when all applicants are highly qualified, culture and personality matter more than skills; you don’t want to give them a reason not to hire you.  Is my hair that reason?  With the White male across the desk think “Black Power” when he looks at what my hair is doing?  My big earrings are to stop people from calling me “sir” because I have short hair, but will the interviewer take them as counter-culture and hire the woman with neat (read: straight)  hair and small pearls?  Don’t tell me I’m being paranoid until you’ve had random Caucasians pawing at your hair, asking how it got that way, or inquiring if you wash it or some such nonsense.  Part of me wants to interview with the black-fist pick in my hair, wearing a dashiki under my corporate suit.  The other part of me – the one that needs money and healthcare – says “get thee to a hot comb and suck it up”.  I know there’s a happy medium where kinky twists rest comfortably atop a twinset and a knee-length skirt, but its gonna take me a while to get there.

Oh, and for the record Michelle’s hair is natural, and she rocks the flat iron on the regular.  I know her stylist.

My Fashion Manifesto

And Donatella still looks better than the woman I saw on the beach today

Style and fashion are not the central themes of this blog, but sometimes (actually all the time) I just have to call ‘em as I see ‘em, and I’ve got to talk about people’s clothes.  I realize that I am not above sartorial reproach, but I love to shop so my wardrobe is pretty much always what you would consider “in”.  And even when it isn’t, I don’t look foolish or inappropriate, and that’s really what I want for everyone since we’re the ones who have to look at you.

Today I was on the beach in Ocean Grove, NJ.  This is my second summer coming here, and there’s a local woman my friend Tanya and I call “Magda”, like the woman from There’s Something About Mary.  She’s old, too tan, too thin, and smokes too much.  On the beach, where there is no smoking.  Until today, I’d never seen Magda up close, just close enough to see that There’s Something About Her that’s Just Wrong.  Then, just as I’d mentioned her to my beach companion, she walked by.  Words can’t begin to describe the horror. I didn’t have a camera, so you’ll have to settle for some words.  Imagine someone wearing wrinkled clothing that’s 2 sizes to big.  Now imagine that the clothes are made of some kind of meat that you’ve microwaved but left in for too long, so its kind of bumpy and rough-looking.  That would be her skin, weather-beaten and sizzled to within inches of its sad life.  She’s darker than me.  I’ll admit that I’m probably the most fair-complexioned person in my family, so much so that some call me fish-bottom legs (cause they’re so white).  But still, this woman is darker than George Hamilton without the good looks and muscle tone.  Also, she’s got an anorexic body.  And she was wearing a bikini.  Not a modest old-lady 2-piece with a skirt.  She definitely bought it in the teen department, high-cut legs and all.  I’m not against women of a certain age showing some skin, but I’d prefer that they didn’t look like a rotting flesh bag.  Then there’s her frazzled, bleached hair.  Obviously, she spends way too much time in the sun, and there’s no SPF in her beach kit.  I know her skin feels like a cantaloupe wrapped in sandpaper, only if that cantaloupe were left in the desert sun for a month.

Lest you think that I’m ageist or overly critical, I will state here are certain items of clothing that everyone, no matter what their age, size, whatever, should be able to wear.  It’s a matter of comfort and propriety, so here’s the list:

1)    Tank top and shorts in summer:  It’s hot, and everyone deserves their own personal cooling station.  I don’t care if your upper arms are fat and flabby (as mine are) or saggy and wrinkled, there’s no reason you should suffer through the kind of summer we’re having in NYC wearing long sleeves because you’re ashamed.  Let ‘em out, ladies!  You’ll feel better, and nobody really cares anyway.  Same goes for shorts.  Varicose veins, hairy legs and cellulite be damned!  Cool those pins in some appropriate shorts:  I don’t want to see anyone’s butt cheeks, no matter how firm they are.  The exceptions to the shorts and tank top rules are as follows: wifebeater undershirts are underwear for a reason, so keep them under your clothes unless they’re brand new and pristine white; gentlemen’s tank tops must have arm holes that prevent viewing of your saggy man boobs, and should not be mesh or neon unless you’re a go-go boy; if your body hair is like a pelt, just cover it up or shave it off because it doesn’t really look clean.

2)    A bathing suit:  The word to remember here is appropriate.  A dip in the pool or the ocean is refreshing, and you need the right swimwear for the occasion.  Every woman can find a one-piece that covers and supports and shapes whatever you’re got going.  Every man can find a pair of trunks, and they don’t even have to cover your beer belly.  Now, just because you have license to own a bathing suit doesn’t mean Nana and Pop-Pop should sport matching neon orange thongs at the community pool (I’ve seen it and it wasn’t pretty.  But it was on a nude beach in another country and they were really tan, so what the hell?)  There is a time and a place for everything, and bikins really are best left to the young and those under a size 14.  Take note, Magda! I used to subscribe to the “if they make it in my size I’m gonna wear it” theory of clothing.  Then I saw a picture of myself, and no manner of string bikini looks good cutting into back fat.  I’ll return to the bikini when I re-lose 50 lbs., but I’m sure its not gonna have any strings and there’ll be some underwires involved.  And it will be slimming black, ‘cuz I’m not an idiot.

There are also some fashion “incidents” that should never be perpetrated:

1)    High-top sandals:  Why?  Do your heels get cold?  Are your ankles so ugly that you need to conceal them with shoes?  From what I’ve seen, that doesn’t work.  Ladies, think about some doofis guy you saw wearing Converse high tops with shorts.  That’s what you look like with a short dress and open-toed boots or whatever they’re supposed to be.  Just say no.

2)    Skinny jeans for men:  Unless you’re built like Pete Wentz or the lead singer of All American Rejects, you look like a weeble-wobble in skinny jeans.  If your legs are big enough to offset your broad upper body, you’ll look like a stuffed sausage.  You’ll never see T.O. in a pair, and the man has a SICK body.  So leave the “skinny” jeans to the “skinny” people, get yourself some relaxed fit, and remember this quote from Chris Rock (who could, by the way, wear skinny jeans): Just because you can do it doesn’t mean it’s to be done.  Oh, and before I forget, wear them above your butt.

3)    A full set of toenails:  I’ve worn acrylic nails, and they’re good for making your polish last longer.  When your nails break before they can grow long, a set of wraps can protect your real nails.  But when did it become okay to put long nails on your feet?  My toenails grow like weeds and I’m forever trying to get them short enough to look normal.  Then I get on the bus and see some woman with long-ass big-toe nails, fully airbrushed, hanging off the end of her sandals.  As the kids say, what the fuck?  It’s so gross that I have to drop an f-bomb.  Used to be when you had one long toenail, your significant other made fun of you until you cut it, talking about how you stabbed him with it in the middle of the night, and how you could use it to cut steak.  Now, apparently, having that one long nail is attractive?  Maybe they use it as a bottle opener, or to shuck oysters, or for some exotic sexual act.  What happens in the winter?  Do you buy longer shoes to accommodate your freakishly-long, yet impeccably groomed, toenail with your baby daddy name written on it in Swarovski crystals?  Asian nail technicians always want to airbrush my nails – hand and feet – because I have long nail beds and they’ll have a large canvas to work on.  I politely and respectfully decline, and exit the salon with my dignity intact.

Pick up your damn pants

If you wore this outside, you deserve to be put on blast.

In general, I make it a habit not to come in contact with men’s underwear.  I guess I’ve heard too many stories about turning dirty drawers inside-out and wearing them again to consider male skivvies the least bit desirable.  Since I’m single, this avoidance works out pretty well most of the time.  In the off chance that I do encounter a guy’s underpants, I anticipate that he’s at least showered and worn clean one for the occasion, and implore him to pick them up off the floor on his way out.  So imagine my dismay at being confronted daily with the countless men who refuse to cover their underwear with pants.

The name says it:  UNDERwear.  I know it’s a trend these days, popularized by Soulja Boy Tell ‘Em, to actually buckle one’s pants under the buttocks.  Apparently it began in jail – enough reason to abandon the practice altogether – when inmates weren’t permitted belts.  Personally, I’ve spent some time in a place where belts and shoelaces were verboten and I’m in no hurry to take fashion advice from people I met there.  Anyway, now there are teenagers and men my age (who should really know better) walking around, standing in front of me on the subway where I can get an eyeful of their tighty-whities which, in many cases, have long since ceased being “white”.   I’ve also seen the backs of hairy thighs peeking out over the belt, giving me a full view of some dude’s whole entire ass.  What’s the point?  If your pants hang that low, you can walk very fast and have to do a modified waddle to keep the pants from dropping completely (I say, what’s the point?  Everyone’s already seen your stuff).  You always need a hand free to hike up your pants so you don’t walk out of them.  You have to pay lots of money for ever-longer shirts to cover your butt which, apparently, don’t really exist since I KEEP SEEING YOUR UNDERPANTS.

My dismay is not new, and tons of people have shaken their heads at the topic of pants below the equator.  Since there’s very little else I can add, allow me to list some other cringe-inducing sartorial choices for men and women alike:

1. Loose, untied shoes:  Another prison-inspired trend, best left on the yard.
2. Rompers/shortalls: The ease of a dress with the comfort of shorts, and I’m all for convenience.  But when adults start wearing items of clothing that I’ve been buying for people’s babies, something is wrong.  (See also:  baby dolls, ruffles, and any other fashion trend that infantilizes grown-ass women and makes them look like they’re on the playground.  Until they make ‘em for men, just say no)
3. Tunics w/tights:  Aah the tunic:  not quite shirt, not quite dress.  I’ll file this under the “cover up your ass” column, since I’ve seen many a tunic worn with un-opaque tights and, again, I’ve seen an eyeful of some girl/woman when it was uncalled for.  I contend the same for women’s underwear as men’s:  I don’t know you like that, so I don’t want see them and I don’t want to see what’s supposed to be under them.  Cover it up, ladies.
4. Thongs w/short skirts:  Not a fashion issue, but one of practicality.  Do you really want to sit your bare ass on the subway?  At least carry a seat cover or something.  I’m just saying…

Well, I’ve covered all the bases, for now.  But back to my original point, fellas.  Unless you’re David Beckham, and your chiseled body has been groomed and styled into some new, clean, very white Emporio Armani briefs that cleverly conceal your junk while suggestively hinting at its ample size, I don’t want to see your underwear.  And neither does anyone else.