Black Wool - Gia Rossum
“I don’t like it. Why would you do that?” Those were the words that stood out to me the most when I got my hair cut short. It wasn’t the compliments or sweet words, but the vile, disgusted ones. Maybe it was because they were spoken so nonchalantly, or maybe it was who said it. Those words, spoken by my only living grandparent, my mother’s mother. I stood there when she said it, not really sure what to say. I might have said a simple, “Okay,” but I’m not really sure. I wasn’t hurt by it, I actually couldn’t stop smiling when she did. I think part of me thought it was funny to hear how upset she was towards me cutting off my own hair. It was necessary, so necessary…
Snip, snip… snip
I hear as my wool falls to the floor
I know many would be upset
A black sheep losing her wool
But I needed to
“Your wool holds your memories”
They would tell me
But was it worth losing my mind?
My wool, curly and long
Cause me to many tears
For so many years
I want it gone
So I continue using the shears
Snip, snip… snip
Letting the memories drift away
Black hair is important to any black woman, if you can grow it long and keep it healthy, you shouldn’t cut it. If not: put it into a protective style, straighten it, or put on wigs. That was the mindset I was supposed to have when it came to my hair. My black wool, but I wasn’t happy with it, so what then? Keep the thing that caused me more harm than good? It caused me more tears than joy, should I have risked my own sanity just to appease those around me? Long wash days, expensive hair products, a lot goes into just taking care of the hair on top of your head. Just one thing can mess up the curls completely: products that are catered towards curly hair can mess it up, grease, flat irons, ect. So much just to do one, what should be, a simple task. And I hated it, all of it. Combing it, hurts. Braiding it, hurts. Just everything about curly hair hurts. “No pain, no gain.” is what they say, but what is there truly to gain if you’ll just grow up hating it in the end. I’m unsure if I’ve ever heard a single black person say they never hated their hair at least once in their life.
“I hate it.” echoed in the room a bit, since her bedroom only really has her essentials. They bothered my mother more than me, probably since her own mother insulted her child. I don’t know, it just felt weird to me, why wasn’t I bothered by the fact that she insulted me. Her eyes looked at me with much shame. Maybe it’s because;
She’s a stranger to me
I may know her
But…
I don’t
The title I put onto her
The title she received
Doesn’t mean anything to me
When there aren’t any memories
Or good ones to say the least
I believe memories contribute to the comfortability you have with someone, the more positive memories you have with someone, but one can break that very easily. Trust, strong yet easily broken like a sheep’s hoof. Easily infected, stuck to limp until the shepherd can tend to it. Hoping and trusting that the shepherd will provide them for the love they need. Providing food, water, shelter, and trimming their wool. The wool, that’s what makes a sheep a sheep. The softness of it, the color, and its importance… to keep them warm, to keep others warm. The wool, the fibers, something that has memories and in turn, can create new ones once it’s in a new form. And that’s how I felt when it came to mine, it had memories. Times of my shepherd nurturing me, taking care of me and my wool.
“I’ll never get my hair cut, I want to keep it long and beautiful.” four year old me would say, through tears. It hurt getting my hair done; tangles everywhere, hair being pulled, braided tightly for it to submit and look neat. Shiny and tight curls until the next week, when the process had to be repeated again. Each time, the younger me stated she wouldn’t get her hair cut short. Even throwing a fit when my mom said she needed to trim it, cutting only a little bit of it, but those small tufts mattered to her. But the more she dealt with it, the more she grew to hate it. The length was impressive, being past her rear and close to mid-thigh when stretched. Thick and curly, it wasn’t a good combination for someone who’s never properly done their hair. Even through the tears I told myself I wasn’t going to cut my hair, even if I didn’t know how to take care of it.
But once senior year hit, I was tired of my long hair, it annoyed me. Every time it touched me it bothered me. Touched my neck, bothered. Touched my arm, bothered. Just every little thing, it slowly made me hate myself. I hated my hair, and sadly that period of my life, I hated being black. I hated being the black sheep amongst the many with white wool. I felt jealous, why couldn’t my hair cooperate like, why couldn’t my hair lay that way? The jealousy ate at me, most of my friends were white sheep, most sheep I was around were. It was sickening to me, it hurt so bad, I never hated myself so much before. It was my final year, I felt like everyone else changed around me and I just stayed stagnant. My wool hasn’t changed, at least not by much it might have been a slight style change but it wasn’t enough for me. I wished for more, maybe I was selfish, but I craved that change. A change that I received for my birthday.
It was my first professional hair cut, my sister introducing me to her curly hair stylist. Such a sweet woman, asking me what I wanted and at that time I was scared. Scared of what I originally craved, so I only got my hair cut to shoulder length. Originally I thought I was happy, I thought this form of my wool was going to be the new me, but not too long after I still wasn’t happy. It still took too long to do, it still felt wrong, it didn’t make me love myself. Why was it so hard to love me, love being black, no one should hate themselves for something that they are, it’s cruel. Many others liked my new wool, “I wish my wool was like yours. I wish I had your wool.” No you don’t. No, you don’t even properly take care of your white wool, you’d just disrespect this one more than you already do since I have it. Microaggressions, the bane of any minority’s existence.
Can I touch your hair?
No…
What does it feel like?
I’m not telling you…
Wow your hair is actually soft!
How did you expect it to feel?
Can I touch your hair?
I said no.
I wish I could say that the disrespect is surprising, but it never is. The other sheep say they aren’t privileged but look at me in disgust when I tell them no. How dare I say no to them, I’m just a black sheep, I have to let them do anything to me. They say that they want equality; if that’s the case I should be allowed to touch their snow white wool even after they smacked my hand away. Yes, this has happened to me, a sheep felt entitled to touch my hair in middle school. You’d think they’d know their manners, but when you feel like your wool is better than others it doesn’t matter. He reached for my wool without asking, I slapped his hoof and said that I didn’t feel comfortable with him touching my wool without my permission. The thought of him touching me in general made me uncomfortable, the sense of entitlement on this sheep had disturbed me so. His annoying bleats left his mouth, asking as if that would fix things, asking as if I would say yes to him. Where was the shepard when I needed her, was she so occupied with the other sheep that she couldn’t see him forcing his hooves onto me. Where was the shepard when I felt uncomfortable, even then would the shepard really have taken the side of the black sheep or would my bleats and cries go unheard?
A sheep shouldn’t feel entitled to another sheep’s wool.