By the 1980s, the conk might well have been retired, but so was the Afro, replaced with the use of texturizing products to create the wet-look Jheri curl and the S curl. It would be highly unlikely to see anyone anywhere sporting a Jheri curl these days, but, nonetheless, I started to understand more fully that ideas about masculinity did not protect black men from feeling some type of way about themselves:
I have a varied past with hair texturizing and it all boils down to not being content with my type 4c hair. 100% there was [stigma] for me. When I was growing up, all I saw was texturized, short styles. All the black men on TV were doing it (predominantly the RnB artists I would see) and my friends with the less coily hair could achieve it naturally. Black boys and men have long stigmatized one another over their “picky” black hair. I think it was because it was seen as unkempt, a sign of poverty and Africanness. The guys with straighter, slicker, more Eurocentric hair types were seen (and are still in many ways) as the black beauty standard. Coily 4c hair was a big no-no.15
Overall, I heard a lot of this kind of thing. While Drake might have been denounced because his hair texture was not black enough, picky, “peppercorn,” African-textured hair is also discriminated against. Many men also talked about neatness, respectability, pressure from parents, assimilation, the fear that Afro-textured hair when worn longer might be seen as threatening. A black man might be no more threatening than a package of Skittles,* but the cost of being perceived as such can be no less than death.
Men shared stories of locks shorn, of heads closely cropped to fit into the corporate world. They described environments where, much like black women being prescribed certain hairstyles, they were told that anything other than closely shorn was not permissible. One respondent explained: “You go through school being excluded for locs, Afros, or braids, it’s a constant issue, and by the time you need to go find a job you know in no uncertain terms what’s expected of you.” Pressure from women was mentioned too. It’s not all one way, ladies. And it was eye-opening to hear how many men simply did not know how to manage their hair. One brother confessed to letting his hair grow to a certain length before asking his dad how to maintain it. Pop’s advice? Cut it off. He didn’t know himself!
AFRICA
Make no mistake, I am not claiming shame is the sole motivation for black men who have short hair. Many reported far less pernicious reasons; receding hairlines and the time and effort required to maintain longer hair were also common explanations. But lack of time, as we have seen, is the result of a division of time that does not reflect the norms of black culture or the needs of black bodies.
Black men wearing carefully cropped hair has long historical antecedents. In precolonial Africa, both men and women often had closely shorn hair or shaved heads. We know that African aesthetics place a strong emphasis on neat and careful grooming, particularly when it comes to hair. Most Yoruba men shaved their head, mustache, and chin until old age, when gray hair (ewu) and a beard (irugbon) were celebrated as valued signifiers of experience and wisdom.16
In the Yoruba community, men’s hair was used to reinforce political power. The hairstyles men wore were as replete with social meaning as those of the women. The ilari (messengers) of the oba (king) wore their hair half shaved (ifari apakan). Regional variations also existed; for example, the messengers of the Oyo Kingdom had their heads shaved every fifth day, leaving a circular patch on the crown that was worn long, braided, and dyed with indigo.17 To attack or kill a royal messenger was an attack on the kingdom they represented. Their hairstyles allowed the ilari to be identified in public, effectively bestowing upon them a measure of diplomatic immunity while they conducted the king’s business.
Yoruba men’s hair in relation to the spiritual world, and the orisha in particular, is fascinating. There exist categories of priests of both sexes that serve as intermediaries for orisha, for instance, Sango, the god of thunder. The female body is said to be ideal for this role because of our incomparable strength and resilience and our ability to bear children without serious injury. In honor of this, the initiation process metaphorically converts the body of a male priest into a female one, allowing the manifestation of the orisha during possession. This emphasis on female physical strength exists in stark contrast to European gender norms. Both male and female priests are called iyawo (wife). This identifies the priest as a special confidant who ensures regular offerings to the orisha and is one of the reasons male priests of Sango wore traditionally female hairstyles such as suku, koroba, and kolese.18 According to the Yoruba scholar Babatunde Lawal, this is not supposed to have a sexual implication; nonetheless, we should remain sensitive to contemporary readings of a world in which gender and sexuality would have been understood entirely differently.
In the east of the continent, we also see gendered European norms concerning hair and, by extension, masculinity and femininity being blown apart. The Masai men of what is modern-day Kenya wore their hair long and intricately styled, while women tended to shave their heads. Like other African groups, the Masai spent much of their leisure time engaged in hairdressing and self-adornment. The moran (warrior) wore his hair extremely long and had it styled by another moran during sessions that could last between fifteen and twenty hours. As previously mentioned, we have been conditioned to automatically describe such activity as arduous or time-consuming, but we should continue to disrupt that notion. I remain curious as to what exactly it is that we are expected to be doing with our time? What is more profound or simply enjoyable than this type of activity? What is life for, if not physical intimacy and communion with our bredrin? If, at the end of the exchange, we look better than we did before, issa win.
THE NEW WORLD: BLACK POWER, EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY STYLE
Eighteenth-century Africans’ hairstyles were neat, intricate, and complex, or short. Yet at the same time in the US, long before the rise of the Afro associated with the Black Power movement, black men were showcasing their natural hair in defiance of anti-black norms.
The historical record presents significant challenges when our interest is in black lives. Black life has not been archived or documented in the same way that white life has. There are no oil paintings that display our wealth and power. We are present, but you have to look for us elsewhere, perhaps in the language you use, in the way you dance, in the food you eat, in the computers you use (more on that to come), in the art you make, or the music that is the soundtrack to your life. Black people are there, although recognition is scarce.
When we appear in the New World, our achievements are not those faithfully recorded for prosperity. Rather, we appear in ledgers, books that contain details of livestock, lists of profit and loss. We are possessions, and as such, there is little need for detail beyond the perfunctory. But every now and then a fleeting glimpse of detail emerges. It’s a motley collection, but you work with what you’ve got: an escaped-slave notice in 1730, a lonesome-hearts ad in 1930.
In their study of slave hair and African American culture, Shane and Graham White find that newspaper advertisements seeking the return of runaway slaves contained the most detailed descriptions of the bodies of African Americans at that time. The distinguishing features of black people were considered important enough to record only when it served the interests of white men demanding the return of their property. Outside the considerations of white men, black lives did not matter. In many ways, one could argue that not much has changed.