FRESH YARN presents: Please, Do Not Pet the Negro... by Kimberly Clark

FRESH YARN presents:

Please, Do Not Pet the Negro
By Kimberly Clark

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 Nola 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?"

Born in the 1970s, I came out of my mother's womb with my hair already styled. I was born with an afro. My mother told me the hospital workers walked by the nursery and when they spotted me they would say things like, "Check out the baby with the 'fro!" and "Right on!" A couple of years later my mom couldn't wait to make my fro more manageable by using a pressing comb on my head. I absolutely hated getting my hair pressed because no matter how careful mom was, she always managed to singe my scalp with the comb. Even though the stinging pain lasted for a couple of seconds, it was enough to send me into a crying fit and officially ruin the rest of my day. And of course my mother could never get my hair as straight as she wanted it. In grade school Jamie Reader and Lee Ann Billings thought my hair had some type of mystical powers because when everyone else's hair plopped back into place after swinging upside down on the monkey bars, my hair would still be sticking straight up in the air, like I put my finger into an electrical socket. It seemed like I was always holding counsel on the playground and lecturing to my white peers about my hair's physics and why if I washed my hair every day like they did, my hair would be as dry as a haystack and eventually fall out. These discussions would always provoke a classmate or two to want to go beyond their general curiosities and actually experience my hair by touching it. My mother made sure I learned that I was not to be treated like Exhibit A being passed around a courtroom, or some type of attraction at an interactive museum. Touching my hair was a big "no no."

I officially became aware of this big "no no" at Cathy Warren's sleepover. I was invited to this annual event all six years of elementary school but never allowed to actually "sleep over," because Cathy's house was dirty and she was notorious for having occasional bouts with head lice. But in the third grade it always seemed like the dirty kids who lived in the dirty houses had the most fun. When my mother picked me up from Cathy's party before everyone went to bed, Mrs. Warren raved about how well behaved I was and she planted her pale hand in the middle of my hair that was greased and parted with two ponytails on each side. Mrs. Warren's hand on my head felt like a stamp of approval, a gold seal of excellence for my good behavior, but my mother's face expressed a totally different sentiment. "I can't believe how Mrs. Warren put her hands in your hair like that, with that smirk on her face. She just wanted to know what nappy hair felt like," my mom complained all the way home. That night I learned that Mrs. Warren's affectionate pat on the head was heavy laden with an ulterior motive, and I had every right to have a chip on my shoulder when it came to people touching my hair.

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.

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.