Please, Do Not Pet the Negro

In the sixth grade I wanted a Jheri Curl and only the good Lord knows why, or for that matter why my own mother -- the one who is supposed to shield, protect, and guide my decisions -- would allow such an abomination to take place with my hair. I look back on the year and a half I spent with a Jheri Curl with deep regret and shame. I remember wanting to look like Ola Ray -- Michael Jackson's love interest from the "Thriller" video, but things didn't quite turn out that way with my hair-do. I looked more like Michael Evans, J.J.'s brother from Good Times. Not only was getting a Jheri Curl an extensive process to endure in the beauty shop; it was a pain in the neck to maintain. Squirting activator on my head every couple of hours or so to keep my "do" moist was taxing on me, and my mother's pillowcases. To this day you will never catch me in a clear plastic shower cap.Through the decades my hair has undergone some pretty radical changes. Over twenty years of hot combs, DAX hair grease, Luster's Pink Lotion, ponytails, lye and no lye perms and relaxers, weaves, cornrows, activator, gel, sleeping in rollers, blow dryers with comb attachments, banana clips, finger waves, strawberry, and pineapple waves.Approximately 10 years of my childhood were lost to spending marathon hours in a beauty shop under hooded dryers that temporarily made me deaf and forced me to read the lips of gossiping women. Although my hair was ever changing, the curiosities of white people have always remained a constant. No matter what my hair was doing, I could always count on someone asking me the ill-fated question, "Do you mind if I touch?" (to continue essay go to "Blog Entries")