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My Hair Ain’t Nappy: A Black Man’s Introspective
on Natural Hair. Copyright © 2012 Darrius Peace. All
rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in
critical articles and reviews. For more information, address
by e-mail [email protected].
First Edition.
Designed by M. Peace
Author’s photo by Elle Danielle Photography
Edited by EyeEdit Editorial Services
ISBN-10: 1468172573
ISBN-13: 978-1468172577
The Journey to Peace
D
C
W
hat does a brother from L.A.—lower Alabama
that is—know about natural hair?
Ever since I was a child, I have always been fascinated
with hair. When I was six years old, I plaited a family
member’s hair and had her looking just like Miss Celie
from The Color Purple. Yes, her head looked a hot mess! But
it was my work, and man was I proud of myself!
It was all good until we got home. “BOYS DON’T DO
HAIR!” The words roared like thunder in my ears as my
parents scolded me for doing a woman’s hair and ordered
me never to be caught again with my hands in a woman’s
head. With my head hung low and my eyes filled with
tears, I felt so ashamed—like I had done something wrong
that totally stripped me of my masculinity. How could
something that brought me such a sense of joy and accomplishment be so wrong? Nevertheless, in an effort to “do
what boys do”, I immediately began to suppress my
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DARRIUS PEACE
fascination with and desire to style hair.
Soul Glow
A few years passed and the arrival of the wet and wonderful jheri curl marked a new dimension of Black style that
had me wide-eyed and ready to let my “Soooooul Glow”!
In the eighties, all the brothers had hair and I did not want
to be left out.
I would picture myself on the cover of Michael Jackson’s
Thriller album. You know the one with him reclining back
sporting his smooth lustrous tresses with the little kiss curl
in the front. He was the epitome of cool and all I wanted
was to be like him. “Mama, can a brutha get a curl?”
My plea for a drippin’ coif was met with a resounding
“No”. My stepfather had one of the longest and juiciest
jheri curls that I knew of, and everybody loved it on him.
But not me, I had to wear a low brush cut. I didn’t even get
the chance to leave activator stains on any sofas.
High-top Fade
My desire to have a jheri curl dissolved as the high-top
fade made its way onto the scene in the nineties. Images
of Kid n’ Play rocking their sky-high hair shot to the top of
my list of desired styles.
Bobby Brown’s side-ramped version took the style to new
heights. I don’t need permission, make my own decisions…
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THE JOURNEY TO PEACE
hummed in my head as I mustered up the courage to ask
my parents for the hip new haircut. My prerogative didn’t
stand a chance as they once again crushed my dreams of
wearing the latest hair trends.
Brush Cut
I have always felt that I looked better with hair. As a little
boy, I wanted to wear fuller hair but I was always forced
to have it cut very low. Why? Because I didn’t have “good
hair”. “You need to keep that nappy mess cut!” The words
were as final as the pounding of a judge’s gavel. I could
feel my confidence plummet to the floor, and with it, my
self-worth. Prior to hearing this, I felt pretty good about
my image—hair included. However, with such strong
words of disapproval, I began to accept that my hair was
indeed a nappy mess.
It’s quite interesting how the texture of one’s hair can so
drastically affect the self-esteem and self-worth of a person. When we feel good about our hair, we tend to feel
good about ourselves. Even if we don’t feel all that physically attractive, having “good hair” can change the game
for us.
Do-Rag
After accepting the fact that low hair was my only style option, I put my energy into achieving “pretty boy” waves. I
wanted to look like I had “good hair” and would do whatever it took to accomplish that look. My nightly hair
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DARRIUS PEACE
regimen included me wetting my hair and dressing it with
a little bit of pomade (you know the grease in the orange
tin can that had the man and lady with the big afros on
the top). I would follow this treatment by brushing my
hair down with my wooden wave brush with extra hard
bristles. I would then finish the process by tying my hair
down extra tight while envisioning waking up with slick
“baby hair” like Al B Sure. Every morning I would achieve
my desired wave pattern along with a deep dent on my
forehead from the tightness of my do-rag. Not quite the Al
B Sure look, but it still was fly.
Bad Hair Day
When I was in middle school, an awful haircut experiment
left my self-image at an all time low. My hair had grown
fuller during a time when money was too short to allow
regular visits to the barber. Deciding to play Little Miss Barbershop, my mom did a job on my hair that left plugs and
empty patches all over my head. Worse still, she forced me
to go to school with the massacre that she had created.
Walking into the school building, I already knew what was
about to go down. In an attempt to delay my foreseeable
torture, I kept my cap on as I quietly slid into a seat in the
back of homeroom. However, my effort to be invisible did
not last long, as my teacher insisted that I remove my hat.
That’s when all hell broke loose…
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