Like a lot of little Black girls, I spent Saturdays lying on the kitchen counter while my mother or grandmother washed my hair in the sink. Motown blasted through the stereo of our Detroit home. It was a sacred ritual, especially when my girl cousins joined too. It would take hours to shampoo, condition, and moisturize our curls, but it never felt like a chore.
Getting pampered by the women in my family was a tradition my mom and grandmother took very seriously. After they washed our curls, they'd navigate narrow basement steps and warm up already dry towels in the dryer. Then, as they sat in chairs, we'd grab a space on the floor in between their legs, and they'd pat—never rub—our hair until it was free from drips. While my grandmother detangled our hair, she would talk about picking cotton in Tennessee as a child. As she rebraided it, she would tell us we were beautiful and intelligent. This is how I fell in love with my hair.
Those cherished Saturday rituals were distant childhood memories when I found myself at William P. Hobby prison in Marlin, Texas, in 2010 at age 38. After six months in prison, I was eligible to get my hair done for the first time. That summer, the temperatures were in the triple digits, so after the incarcerated women working at the hair salon washed and trimmed my ends, I wanted to let my hair air-dry. If I had to be in prison, at least it could blow freely in the breeze. |
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