Don't Touch My Hair
I have to do a quick dip and bob maneuver to avoid the outstretched hand of someone I’ve just met who just has to touch my “crazy hair.”
I’ve traveled throughout Western Europe on and off for the past six years and in this time I’ve met an incredible amount of people who have taught me a multitude of things about myself and the world.
However, there is one thing that I have yet to learn how to master: how to manage the emotional and psychological gymnastics that I must do in order to recuperate from the aftereffects of a pat, pull, or rummage through my hair.
I’m currently living in France, and sometimes people touch my hair without asking first, or sometimes they do ask, but once I’ve said no they do it anyway, and I’m not quite sure I know why.
I openly wear my hair in a natural way which often entails a slightly mussed parted afro that allows me to enjoy a short morning prep time that could still use a little more shortening. This look gives me the breezy lifestyle that I always longed for in my perm or relaxer days, and it gives me the added bonus of feeling a little bit fierce due to how loud and big it can get.
However, this loudness can attract the unwanted attention of others who mostly don’t share my same cultural knowledge. That is to say, the only people who don’t touch my hair without my express permission are black people. This lesson of keeping ones’ hands to themselves particularly out of others’ hair was taught to me very young. I especially knew not to touch my mother’s hair or any black woman’s hair for that matter, but this knowledge seems to be a well-kept secret that only a small community seems privy to in France and in Europe at large. Despite the efforts of advocates like Solange Knowles, who thoroughly scolded the masses with her song “Don’t Touch My Hair,” and Phoebe Robinson’s recently released book, You Can’t Touch My Hair: And Other Things I Still Have to Explain, people still go for my coils.
When I meet a new person for the first time I have to do a quick dip and bob maneuver to avoid the outstretched hand of someone I’ve just met who just has to touch my “crazy hair.” This is also strange to me because of course, everyone in my family has hair like me, so rather than crazy my hair could be described as normal.
The unwanted touch can happen on a weekend night out on rue Oberkampf, where I used to go to frequent the overflowing bars that are so filled that people pour into the streets. A random guy will just pull on my hair while I walk past. When the all too common event occurs, it always leaves me feeling angry, confused and a bit sore. I’m always left asking myself why and what kind of person does that to another human being?
The reach can also happen when I meet one of my European friends’ parents for the first time. I met my boyfriend’s colleague’s mother a few years back and she seemed lovely enough. Except for the fact that after we introduced ourselves in the traditional French way, by kissing lightly on both cheeks. She took our relationship to another level by deciding to rummage wholeheartedly through my hair all the while singing its praises. I stood there shocked at first then when I came to my senses I moved out of her path and ended the conversation as soon as humanly possible. This kind of experience leaves me feeling extra exhausted because I know that she has the best intentions, but I also can’t help but feel uncomfortable, ostracized, objectified and ultimately angry for having to be made to feel this way. I didn’t reach for her breasts and say how beautifully round and firm they looked even though they really did look great. I know that would be disrespectful and inappropriate. So why doesn't she know this about touching a black woman’s hair?
Sometimes I can avoid the fondling of my hair because I can see it coming, but in some situations, they catch me off guard. Like the time I was teaching in a public high school in Reims, France in 2013. My colleague who had never been introduced to me before dug through my hair then patted it while I was typing up some worksheets for my next class in the teacher’s lounge. He never said a word to me while doing this he merely looked at another colleague nearby and said, ‘Bonne touffe quoi!’ and moved on before I had a chance to react. This loosely translates to, ‘Woah, great tuft of hair.’ My delayed reaction and embarrassment left me feeling ashamed and viscously angry. I was new to the school, new to the country, and I didn’t want to have to deal with this issue on top of everything else.
Since I went natural in 2012: going natural is the act of black women wearing their hair the way that it grows out of their head, I've had a hard time understanding where the fascination with my hair lies, because I don’t think my hair is exceptional in any way. There are whole countries, continents even, that are filled with people who look like me, so when the argument for why they must touch me is that I’m exotic I am disappointed and confused.
The impulse of nonblack people to pet me helps me to better understand the choice of many black women to keep their natural hair under wraps by wearing braids, some kind of wig or weave or to chemically straighten their hair with a perm or relaxer. In more ways than one, it can save the bearer of black tresses an unnecessary headache.
As for me, I have no plans of changing my hairstyle for the purposes of improving others’ inappropriate behavior. I love my hair and how it looks, so I will keep fighting the good fight and repeating ad nauseam, don’t touch my hair.