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Please,
Do Not Pet the Negro PAGE
TWO When the high school years came around for me, swimming was no longer in my vocabulary and I gladly sacrificed frolicking in a pool for the sake of keeping my hair in check. This was also the time when my white peers took an even more concentrated interest in my hair. I was constantly told how "cool" my hair was and white girls would look at me and say, "I wish my hair could do that." One day someone in school very nicely asked me if they could touch my hair. I thanked them for asking me, but I also flatly told them "no." I was tired of being the official spokeswoman for my hair, and the last thing I wanted to be treated like was a deer in a petting zoo. I am not an animal! Looking back on that day in high school reinforces what I learned to be true. That it's my right to stop someone's curious hand from wandering through my locks. The older I get the more protective I am about what occurs in my hair. I wouldn't go as far as describing my relationship with my hair as an obsession, but more like a source of pride and strength. A chemical has not touched my hair in four years. I'm no longer fleeing from rainwater like it's boric acid falling from the sky, or surrendering my dollars to beauticians with funky attitudes. Lately I've been wearing my hair in millions of braids or I'll take them out and wear the afro God gave me. I decided that no matter how much I try to manipulate my hair to be bone straight or wet and curly, the truth of the matter is my hair is nappy. I'm not mad about it or particularly glad about it either. My hair is what it is and I'm satisfied. Fortunately, I have retired from being the official spokeswoman of black hair and I've moved on to more pressing matters, like finding jeans to fit my JLo-to-the-fifth-power-sized butt. So
if you would be so kind white people, if you happen to see me in
an intricately braided hairstyle or in an afro kissing the sky,
please hold all of your questions. And another thing -- please refrain
from petting this Negro. It would greatly be appreciated.
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When
my mother's arms couldn't take it anymore and she realized she needed
more manpower to deal with my thick naps, I was sent to McGrae's
Beauty Shop where cousin Katie worked as a hairdresser. My hair
unfortunately placed a strain on Cousin Katie's combs, as well as
the once-loving relationship we shared. For close to six years I
would approach Cousin Katie's chair in tears because I thought she
hated me. But the truth of the matter was she didn't hate me, she
hated my hair. Since my parents were now spending good money to
keep my hair coiffed, I had to take very special care of it. I learned
at an early age that unsolicited water is "the black woman's
kryptonite." What is "unsolicited water" one may
ask? Rain, snow, fog, humidity, sleet, lakes, the ocean, swimming
pools, water guns, sweat, those annoying misters that chain restaurants
use in the summer to keep their outdoor seating cool -- all sources
of "unsolicited water." When a black woman encounters
any of those situations unprepared, all hell will break loose with
her hair. My most memorable experience with "unsolicited water"
occurred on a partly cloudy day. I was at the bus stop. I looked
fabulous waiting for my school bus in long, straightened, shoulder-length
ponytails. In a matter of minutes, an unexpected shower left me
with two afro puffs screwed down to my scalp. Rain has never been
my friend since. Summertime was no better for me. I loved swimming,
but my hair had to be protected. So I would sweat like crazy in
a yellow rubber swim cap while Lee Ann Billings and Jamie Reader
dipped their blonde hair in and out of the cool, chlorine tainted
water. 
