Sea Sick From These Waves Spinning
Today's hair story is spotlighting the Black man's dream of getting waves, what you know about brushing your waves in with the shampoo and durag for hours?
I remember the first time a Black guy in school used that line on me, and yes, it worked. “You sea sick from these waves spinning, huh, baby?”
“Yes,” cheesing from ear to ear.
And I found myself cheesing ear to ear when I saw B4 in the chat, talking about his memories as a Black boy just wanting waves instead of the lowcut. You know how Black parents would get the boys’ hair cut so low so that the haircut would last a little longer. That was the most common haircut I did in the barbershop when I was in barber school.
I can’t wait to see the comment section after you read this one! And shoutout to the fellas sending in their hair stories, this really warmed my heart. Enjoy.
Don’t touch my hair, dawg
Written By B4
My mom thought she cooked with this one
Sometime in August 2006, my mother had the bright idea to give me waves one day. To the untrained mind, this doesn’t sound like complete lunacy on her part. To the minds molded in black barbershops and lunch tables, this sounds like social execution. To keep a long story short, I didn’t end up with waves. If we’re being quite honest, I ended up with puddles and runoff dripping down my neck via S-curl. As an 8-year-old, I trusted my mom to hook me up with everything my uncles and cousins were rocking. My older cousins all hail from Ghana, but a few of them were brought over to the DMV during their high school tenure. On top of being fresh off the boat and battling their accents, my cousins were immersed in the culture of the early 2000s. Jerseys, dangling chains, shooting sleeves that didn’t help a single jumpshot, you name it, and they rocked it. The one article of cultural currency I adored most was durags and the waves which came with them. Not to mention the kids at school who kept brushes in their back pockets like magic wands. At 8 years old, I thought that was the coolest thing ever, and all I wanted was to rock waves. Thanks to my mom, that wasn’t in the cards, and I rocked the low cut for many years to come.
Sometime in 2012-2014ish, I decided to start getting fades. Growing up, my parents were big on keeping my hair as low as possible. That viewpoint was a lingering effect of British colonization in African countries, and it sadly transformed into tradition. My father grew up calling it a military cut, and my mother thought it was the most handsome thing ever. I thought it was my worst nightmare, but I had no other options. The uncles I spoke of earlier were once victims of the infamous buzz cut, and I tragically suffered the same fate. I marched into my uncle’s bathroom, hoping for a clean cut, and came out looking like a glossy bowling ball. All that changed when an older cousin took me to his barber one day. I started getting fades and learning about different cuts and styles. Furthermore, I began to understand the power in owning our hair. I started to understand the worth in keeping an appearance you prefer and not bending to tradition or rules. All my friends were getting tapers, high tops, waves, or experimenting with anything they could think of, and I couldn’t be excluded. Even if my own parents wanted to snip the hair off my head themselves.
Sometime in my 20s, my parents realized growing my hair wouldn’t kill my career chances. For those whose parents aren’t drowning in tradition, this won’t make much sense. My mother was of the belief that earrings, chains, tattoos, and long hair were representative of an unclean and unruly image. Once again, those beliefs stem from a white world that doesn’t appreciate black beauty and the black standard. What infuriated me the most was that my mother wore her hair in countless styles as I grew up. She didn’t step outside without looking good, and I always believed that was our family standard. So, it bothered me when she and my father tried to force me into cutting my hair. For someone whose struggled with haircuts and how they look on me, this request was a knockout blow. For so long, I tried to find the perfect cut, and I succeeded. I looked great on campus, I looked great in photos, and I thought I looked great to my parents. Only for them to deem my hair nasty and a bad representation of our culture. My parents weren’t the only ones who held this belief in my immediate family. Every relative born in Africa seemed to echo this white centric belief system. When my cousin got dreads, his mother threatened to cut them off in retaliation. When another cousin got twists, his mother vented to our aunts for hours. And when I finally told my parents I wasn’t going to cut my hair low, they bucked back. They complained and whined like petulant children until I explained one thing they seemed to forget. This hair is my shit, I rolled the rod, and I gave it time, so this hair is mine. Trying to bend myself to a standard I didn’t create was crippling as a child. I couldn’t understand why a low cut mattered so much, and the inklings of that pressure still exist in my mind. There are moments where I do go low, but I do so out of choice. It’s no longer an idea forced upon me by people who aren’t me. My hair comes and goes by my choice, and that’s how it should have always been. Thankfully, that’s how it will remain until the greys set in and the sun shines low.
Hands off the hair.
Hold your ear, so this hot comb won't burn you.
Before the flat iron, we had Marcel curling irons and the hot comb. Is there such a thing as healthy heat damage, because my hair was the healthiest with old school hairdressers, as we called them?
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This is so funny, the universal black boy bald cut is just a canon event. My dissertation in the form of a documentary is about black men’s hair experiences, so it’s great that you shared yours!
This was a joyful and yet, powerful read about the deep hold colonizing beliefs have on Black people's "respectability" standards. Wheww. Loved you held strong in who YOU are.