Ah, the bygone days of my youth: being planted in a chair by my mother while she dragged a heated metal comb dangerously close to my ears in order to straighten my willful hair. I can recall bracing myself when the comb neared my sensitive scalp (you didn’t want to wince and risk third-degree burns). Then, when I was older, I was dragged by my well-meaning mater to the salon to straighten my nappy hair. Now there were professionals digging their fingers into my scalp as they vigorously shampooed it (think of the “Bring Honor to Us All” scene in “Mulan”), rinsing me in water (which they mercifully temperature controlled at my request), rolling in tight curlers until my head ached, slamming me under hot air dryers and pulling out the curlers to reveal a dazzling new me.
Yes, I grew to dislike every moment of it. It was like being pulled to church when I was beginning to suspect the whole “god” business was one big fraud. The only thing I liked about it was when it ended.
When I became independent and living on my own, I went to the salon by myself, mostly out of habit and the misguided notion that it was somehow a necessary part of the Black beauty regimen. Then one day I thought, “Screw this. Hair is dead matter on the top of my head and it’s stupid for me to keep throwing money at it. I could be spending my cash on better things—like books.”
This brings me to “Frizzy”, a wonderful re-construction of the dilemma a lot of Black girls face. What constitutes good hair? Is it worth the pain and expense to attain it?
Marlene’s wild and bouncy hair is lovely but she can’t see it that way when everybody else is telling her otherwise. Her elders, her mother, the kids at school—they all seem to have it in for her when it comes to her hair. She struggles with the low self-esteem engendered by other people’s scorn and weekly steels herself for the pain of salon visits.
The graphics tell a story of a grade-school girl torn between what she wants and pleasing her mother. Both of them are battling a pain that lies outside of the hair issue and yet ties indirectly into it. When Marlene summons up the courage to confront her mother about changing her tonsorial style, catharsis is achieved and their mother-daughter bond acquires newfound strength.
It’s a sweet story of discovery, attaining self-worth and sticking up for your own personal beauty. Hair’s to you, Marlene.
Yes, I grew to dislike every moment of it. It was like being pulled to church when I was beginning to suspect the whole “god” business was one big fraud. The only thing I liked about it was when it ended.
When I became independent and living on my own, I went to the salon by myself, mostly out of habit and the misguided notion that it was somehow a necessary part of the Black beauty regimen. Then one day I thought, “Screw this. Hair is dead matter on the top of my head and it’s stupid for me to keep throwing money at it. I could be spending my cash on better things—like books.”
This brings me to “Frizzy”, a wonderful re-construction of the dilemma a lot of Black girls face. What constitutes good hair? Is it worth the pain and expense to attain it?
Marlene’s wild and bouncy hair is lovely but she can’t see it that way when everybody else is telling her otherwise. Her elders, her mother, the kids at school—they all seem to have it in for her when it comes to her hair. She struggles with the low self-esteem engendered by other people’s scorn and weekly steels herself for the pain of salon visits.
The graphics tell a story of a grade-school girl torn between what she wants and pleasing her mother. Both of them are battling a pain that lies outside of the hair issue and yet ties indirectly into it. When Marlene summons up the courage to confront her mother about changing her tonsorial style, catharsis is achieved and their mother-daughter bond acquires newfound strength.
It’s a sweet story of discovery, attaining self-worth and sticking up for your own personal beauty. Hair’s to you, Marlene.