Recently, Beyoncé released her new haircare line, Cécréd, and the internet had something new to complain and rave about. Many armchair critics were upset for many illogical reasons, but lack of logic never stopped the wrong from being loud. Some of the complaints were about the necessity of Black women to prove they have long hair or that even Beyonce was faking having long hair.
The only critique I could see as valid was that Beyoncé’s length is the result of genetics a bit more than a solid haircare regimen, but then again, I’ve never been a billionairess, so I imagine that would do something for your hair, too.
Either way, Black hair is hard, and I think Black women are constantly having to battle with what the world sees versus what we see in the mirror.
My hair woes began in childhood. For most of my life, my mother had hair that was at least halfway down her back. She usually kept it at a certain length, but by the time she turned 60, it was solidly at her lumbar region. I remember when she came home decades prior, after chopping it to just beyond her shoulders; I was so devastated at the loss that I boohoo cried. As a kid, my mother’s hair was phenomenal. People would constantly come up to her and compliment it, and from an early age, I knew that hair was currency.
My hair is a combination of my father’s thin 4C hair and my mother’s thick 3C hair. I have them both. I knew this from childhood because when my mother would get to the middle section of my hair, she would playfully label it my Kente Kunta section. I call it my father’s name. It has been thick. It has been thin. It has been long. It has been short. It has been healthy. It has come out in clumps and most of the time, it has been hard work. If my memory serves me correctly, my mother’s haircut was during the brief but seemingly interminable time when I had a Jheri Curl, which also came with bald spots. I was about 12 and 13 years old, and I had also lived in a mostly white neighborhood, which did not make the feelings I had already had of social awkwardness and insecurity any better. My mother’s hair was the only way I felt beautiful; it was the aspiration I had as a child. I just knew that when I grew up and had adult hair, it would look just like hers. Ehhhh.
When a white woman shaves off her hair, no one questions her ability to grow it. When a Black woman does it, people assume that it is based on necessity. As someone who has never worn a weave, people have used what they thought was not my real hair as a means to insult me. Black hair is not monolithic, but let the media and society tell it, Black women are only able to get long hair from a pack, and sometimes that makes proving that your hair is something you grew yourself, feel like a delicate dance that ends right before the desperation sets in. There are many women with 4C hair whose hair is extremely long, but even with societal expectations of long and straight being the only way that hair is considered worthy, that still does not satisfy those who need proof. I do not know about the specifics of Beyoncé’s DNA, but it does appear that her genetics are part of why her hair is as long and as thick as it is, but even she has felt compelled to show the world that she, too, can grow long hair. This is something that starts young, as we see young Black girls who are not even school-aged yet with extensions in their hair. Doing so supports the idea that their hair is not good enough, even if doing so causes damage to the child’s root or hair. The idea that it is better to pretend to have healthy hair than actually cultivate it sets in early.
Recently, a Black woman who worked at Ebin Cosmetics, which is a Korean company that specializes in edge control and wigs, talked about her racist and hostile work environment.
When I tell you I will never buy an Ebin product ever again after watching what she went through, as a black woman working for a Korean based company whose target audience is BLACK WOMEN! pic.twitter.com/AEsxAQW7zr
— A???? (@littbruja) April 22, 2024
Another TikTok user, a Black woman who owns a Black hair care store, spoke of how Korean haircare distributors iced her out of the market to supply her store.
The interaction between Korean Americans and Black Americans has been contentious for a while, peaking in the early 90s with the shooting death of Latasha Harlins, who was shot in the back of the head by a Korean store owner. Korea has dominated the Black haircare industry since the 1960s, when South Korea mandated that only South Korea could sell South Korean hair, and the American government outlawed the import of hair from China. Recently, I saw a tweet where a woman questioned the Blackness of those who did not know what a 26-piece was. Wearing fake hair is so much a part of our culture that if you don’t know the specifics of wigs or lacefronts, then your Blackness is up for scrutiny. If you, as a Black woman rebel against the idea that your natural hair is not worthy, then you may not be Black enough. If you decide to only wear your hair naturally, strangers will comment on how only certain people look good with natural hair. Hair is a tough thing for Black women. We patronize the same haircare stores where the owner may not even acknowledge us.
There is a severe disconnect when the same companies who feel that Black people are not worthy of sharing the profits in their own niche needs are the same companies who have the lion’s share in making us feel worthy to the outside world. Even with the consideration of natural haircare products, Korean beauty supply stores sometimes offer more than Target, and Target really does a much better job than many companies with being inclusive with Black hair care. We live in a world that tells us that we are ugly or unworthy, a world which uses hair as its first line of evidence that we don’t measure up, literally. We also live in a world that has had Black people living in it for the same amount of time as everyone else, and yet we are still seen as an anomaly.
We are still poked, prodded and plucked by people whose curiosity is stronger than their ability to control their hands.
We are still told that we must assimilate in order to keep a man and a job. We are still scrutinized by our own if we are not familiar with how to cover up the second most identifiable characteristic of our Blackness. We live in a world where the presentation of our hair is indicative of how worthy we are of the world’s love. Being asked, “What’s going on with that hair?” is a phrase that comes with an indictment of carelessness, no matter how laid back the situation. You could be at home in clothes that should’ve been changed days prior, in the most comfortable position, in the comfort of the only place you can let your hair down, and there is still pressure for you to look presentable.
We live in a world where everybody is allowed to have a bad hair day except Black women.
