A few months into my bid I decided to pay to have my hair braided. It cost one dollar, or two ramen noodle soups. The person who did it—a short, toothless white boy who kept to himself—said he’d only charged me so people wouldn’t think he was a pushover.
It had been years since my hair had been in any type of braids, and even that had been more of an experiment than a conscious decision to further embrace my blackness. To that point in life, wearing my hair in its natural tightly coiled puff satisfied a dull, but persistent, primal urge to embody my blackness as a queer man.
In the world, I had access to high-end products: leave-in conditioners, hair masks, deep conditioning treatments. In prison, however, access to after-shower products is severely limited. Cutting my hair was not an option, though trying to style it every day and keep it from becoming a nappy nest would become cumbersome, and expensive. My decision to braid my hair was born of necessity; I needed to protect what had become as much a part of me as my arms or eyes or my psychotic but unique ebullient personality.
“I didn’t recognize you!” and “Who’s the new guy?” joked some of my dormmates and even some of the corrections officers. I laughed humorlessly, and thought—almost aloud—every time, How original! Have you considered a career in comedy? Though I’d only changed a physical aspect of myself, I began to feel fundamentally different.
Body image issues had plagued my entire adolescent and adult existence. Growing up, I had acne; my stomach was never flat enough; if only I clocked in a few inches taller. So when, in 2015, despite cries from corporate brass that my hair looked unprofessional, I stopped my cutting my hair, I began to find a warm solace in rocking my natural locks. It was like I’d been on a journey to find a treasure so incontrovertibly mine, and, in my hair, I’d found an old bejeweled wooden chest. In that I found my confidence.
As my hair lengthened, in lieu of protective styles, I experimented with coloring my hair. First, I lightened my hair from black to a chocolate brown. While I mixed that first coloring solution, very probable ruminations ravaged my mind: Would I fry what barbers and others have called my “good” hair? After chemically shocking my hair, would it abandon ship like I vaguely remembered my mother’s hair doing when I was a child?
It didn’t. And that first adventure into coloring my hair started a cycle which lasted until a week before my prison sentence commenced. Happy? Color my hair. A minor inconvenience? Color my hair. The end of the world? If that came, at least my hair would be blonde, a golden-honey color that perfectly complemented my skin tone. For a visual, think Beyonce, because I sure as hell did.
Coloring my hair, and the subsequent TLC required to keep my hair from becoming brittle like the hard candy created and sold throughout prisons everywhere became a coping mechanism, a celebration, and a boredom killer rolled nearly into one with bright blonde bow.
One of my concerns, naturally, about prison was the upkeep of my hair. During my time in New Haven—a dank, mold-infested prison primarily for unsentenced men—without commissary cosmetics to tame my hair (I all but gave up on skin care), I briefly—but seriously—considered a buzzcut.
I prayed to the Hair Gods, and they, in their mysterious follicle wonder, sent me an angel dressed in DOC tans with a lazy eye who offered shampoo and conditioner. Though I was skeptical about this act of kindness, I used the products. After that first real wash in prison I knew cutting my hair was not an option.
After moving to Cybulski Correctional Institution, I toughed it out for a few months, washing, conditioning, and detangling twice a week until I met Donnie. Though my stylist has changed in the following months, his gentle, white hands blessed my hair with a protective style, and gave me a newfound reverence for my blackness.
Blackness and hair are historically and socially bound together. Decades ago we were ridiculed for our nappy, kinky hair to the point we drowned our hair in chemicals until it fell out. Now, our hairstyles are celebrated, and of course, appropriated. Some states have enacted legislation outlawing discrimination based on our hair.
As someone labeled by others as “not black enough” because of the way I talk, the music I listen to, and how I enjoy reading and writing, my hair is one way I embrace who I am without changing who I am.
We, as a society, however, still have a long way to go. There is a pervasive, predominately white entitlement to all things related to our hair, even in prisons filled with Black and brown people. Form its feel to its look, from the lackluster products to the lack of protective headwear, there is a palm-colored monopoly controlling our hair.
After braiding my hair the first time, I pulled out a commissary sheet to order a shower cap. I’d seen it listed on the back on the scantron, but never paid it much attention. Even I knew then I couldn’t allow my braids to get wet, lest they start to smell like wet dog. That time I noticed the heading under which shower caps were listed: FEMALE ONLY.
What in the Pink Oil?
With a disproportionately large number of Black and brown men incarcerated at my prison, and across the state of Connecticut, this restriction came as a shock. Did they really believe the only people who needed shower caps were women? I wanted to ask questions, drum up conversation with the decision-makers, but I’d have a long fight ahead of me, Donnie warned, as they only recently allowed men to order emery boards.
Whenever I took my braids out comments—from inmates and officers alike—flew like a murder of prejudiced crows. “What kind of hairstyle is that?” said Officer Millard, a human version of Ms. Piggy from The Muppets in a cop costume. “Brillo pad?”
When I tried to explain to a friend how the remark was inherently rooted in racism, my reasoning fell upon ignorant ears. Since then, I’ve heard other comments and comparisons: Rosa Parks and Frederick Douglass. My personal favorite? Edna from The Incredibles.
People have touched my hair in passing, remarking on how its softness shocked them. It’s like cotton! People have suggested different hairstyles and cuts as though someone stamped SUGGESTIONS across my forehead.
I’m tired. In trying to protect something that sparks joy and promoted my individuality in a place where conformity is the mandate, I’ve inadvertently invited both systemic and personal trespasses upon my body, my queerness, and my blackness.
Do not speak on how you think I should look. Do not touch me without my consent. And remember: don’t fuck with my hair.
