It's a Hair Thang (dedicated to Imus)

I'd like to say that I started wearing an afro because my consciousness was raised by the fervor of the 1960's focus on black power, civil rights, and making love not war.  The truth is that I embraced wearing a fro because of gym class.  I was 14, in the ninth grade, and had gym class three days a week. 

The gym teacher, Mrs. Gilchrist, was a tall, lean woman with close-cropped hair and the demeanor of an army drill sergeant.  The first day of gym class, I was consumed with the dread of the chronically fat child, certain that I was about to embark on a thrice-weekly cycle of humiliation and physical torture.  Our gym clothes were royal blue one-piece belted jump suits.  For added humiliation, the legs ended about mid thigh.  I looked like a blue dumpling wearing a belt. 

"All right ladies, line up, single file and give me two laps around the gym." 

I made my best effort, panting and praying my way around the gym. Certain that at any moment my legs were going to collapse, I trudged onward, when suddenly I heard an angel calling my name.  I came to an abrupt halt and Mrs. Gilchrist beckoned me over.

"I need someone responsible to take attendance each class and take the roster to the office.  Can you do that?" 

For the rest of the school year, I ran one lap before doing my duty as assistant to Mrs. Gilchrist.  For whatever reason, she liked me.  Or maybe she just pitied me. 

In spite of Mrs. Gilchrist's fondness or pity, I couldn't avoid the humiliation of the girls' shower room.  After gym class, no one escaped stripping down and taking a hot shower before getting dressed in our regular clothes.  The school supplied the shower with soap, washcloths, and towels but neglected to provide shower caps.  For now unfathomable reasons, it never occurred to me to bring my own shower cap.

Prior to my enrollment in gym class, my mother would hard press my hair every two weeks.  The goal of a hard press is to straighten out the natural curl and kink of black hair.  The primary tools in this operation consist of a fine tooth iron comb, hair pomade, a stove, and your mother. Straightening my hair required the correct application of heat, hair pomade, and skill in the use of the straightening comb.  Every other Saturday, after washing my hair, I'd sit in a kitchen chair and watch my mother heat up the metal comb on the stove.  Trying desperately to adhere to her admonishments of, "Hold still," I'd close my eyes as I felt the heat approaching my head.  My mother was quite skillful with the straightening comb, and unlike some of my friends, I bear no lasting scars from this beauty ritual.  So although I wasn't particularly fond of having burning heat applied to my head on a regular basis, I had adjusted reasonably well to the process over the years, until gym class.

The worst enemy of pressed hair is moisture--water, humidity, steam, or sweat.  The combination of running my lap, and the hot shower would undo all of my mother's careful work and my hair would revert to its natural state of kinks and bends.  At first, my mother would attempt to repair the damage with another session with the straightening comb, but she soon grew tired of the every other night beauty ritual.

"You are old enough to straighten your own hair.  When I was half your age, I not only did my own hair but I straightened your grandmother's hair and all of my sisters' hair too!" 

I tried; I really did, but I couldn't seem to master the technique.  If the comb wasn't hot enough, the grease wouldn't melt and the hair wouldn't get straight; if it was too hot, the grease burned my scalp and my hair!  My head was a mix of kinky clumps of grease-laden hair and bald spots. 

Salvation came my way on the evening news.  There was Angela Davis in all her natural glory, with a fro like a halo around her head.  In an instant, I knew what to do.  That weekend I washed and sectioned my hair, sprayed each section with Afro Sheen, and braided it tightly.  The next morning, I carefully loosened each braid and fluffed my hair with my new tool, the afro pick.  My halo wasn't nearly as magnificent as Angela Davis' but it had clear potential. 

My mother was not immediately taken with my new hairstyle. "You're not leaving my house with your hair undone!" 

However, as she wouldn't and I couldn't press my hair, she eventually chose to ignore my new do.  A totally unexpected side effect was that others viewed my fro as a political statement.  So I donned a dashiki, a pair of dangling hoop earrings, and purchased a pick with a black power fist as the handle.  I had found myself, liberated by Mrs. Gilchrist and her gym class.