The Chronicles of Hair - Vol1

When Abigail first came home, her hair was styled in bunches all over her head, tied with colourful bands, like a giant pincushion on her head. It wasn't so much the style that bothered me, but the smell. Not good.

It was her first weekend at home and I was ill-prepared for a chubby toddler with stinky hair. For instance, it had not occured to me that little children require small towels and child-sized blankies. I had only big, bulky towels and I drowned her in white fluffiness.

But the hair! I took off the bands and loosened the bunches. Soon I unveiled the source of  the smell. In this bunch, a piece of soggy bread. In another bunch an unidentified yellow substance, vaguely resembling egg. Lots of grease. Lots of yuckiness. The result of living in a home with seventeen other little children, all requiring attention from over-worked and underpaid care-workers.

I called my friend Tamara. I told her I was going to cut off all her hair. I don't remember what Tamara said exactly, but there was some degree of horror on the other side of the phone. I took the only tool I had: a large pair of kitchen scissors, and started cutting.

Clean-cut and happy to be free from the heaviness on her head, Abigail was unaffected by the loss of her crowning glory. And little did she know it was the start of a Great Hair Adventure.

From there, we went on to dreadlocks. First of all, I felt closer to the hero from my teens, Bob. He would have been proud of my rasta child. The dreadlocks were cute, cool and most of all, easy! My friend Ncumisa explained that you could achieve much with a wet facecloth rubbed in a clockwise direction in the bath at night.

Eventually the dreadlocks became fuzz-attractors. I had not yet discovered hair products. The locks went from black to brown to gray, from spiky and funky to limp and clumpy. Then a friend's son mistook her for a boy. The dreads had to go.

Out came the kitchen scissors and snip, all the dreads were gone. Simone helped me mix and apply relaxer to the remaining hair. In just half an hour Abigail was having her hair blow-dried into a sleek, straight bob, very smooth.

Two weeks later, there was a strange bald patch on the back of her head. I tried to tell myself it was just the curl returning to her hair, but in reality it was her hair breaking off. After a month I repeated the process. For a day, I was the proud mum of a child with really cute hair.

When I went to pick her up for school the next day, a child with brassy, wiry hair ran up to me and called me mamma. I smiled and wondered who this weird-haired girl really was. As she turned her back to me I saw it. A bald patch. Actually all her hair had broken off at the back and it was orange. It was orange and wiry. I still get shivers thinking about it. She seemed unaffected. Her school concert was in two days.

In the car I told her the kitchen scissors would have to come out again, but this time, I would replace her hair with something she had been wanting for a long time: braids.

I called my friend Ayanda. We met up the day before Abigail's concert at 16:00 hours for Operation Restore Dignity. She introduced me to some skillful Cameroonian hairdressers near Mowbray station, who had learned their craft at the feet of their elders. The plan was to have her hair braided and get home in time for supper.

Five and a half hours later I had swept the entire salon out of boredom. Abigail and I were both starving. But it was all worth it. She looked like a princess.

The Braids - with her Nonna (my mom)

Watching her standing center-stage at her concert the next day, I was glad I had finally made the move to synthetic hair. Braids are really easy to maintain. Then they actually have to be removed.

For this we called Melody, travelling hair-dresser from Parklands, originally from Zimbabwe. She removed the braids and started plaiting Abigail's new hair. There was an hour of tears followed by joy as Abigail saw her corn-rows in the mirror. They were neat.

That was a month ago. Eventually I removed the plaits myself without having to call on my friends  for the how-to. I washed and rubbed her scalp with hair food and finally fluffed out a beautiful afro. I feel like I have graduated from the same hair school as Claire from the Cameroon. I have a bathroom cabinet full of hair balms, moisturising sprays and detanglers. Most of all, I know how and when to use them. I have black friends on speed dial in case of emergencies. I am sorted.

This week I was brushing Abigail's natural, soft afro and nagging her to keep still. Look up! Look down! Stop moving!

Abigail begged me to stop. To which I answered, "Abigail, mamma just wants to make you look pretty, darling."

"But mamma," she said, "I am already pretty!"

Reality check. All the shinanigans were about me wanting to appear to be a competent mommy in a fiercely competitive world of Dark and Lovelies. Ultimately, Abigail feels pretty good about herself. She likes what she looks like. Hair and all. And that is how my child taught me a lesson in self-worth. We really are more than our hair.

Weeping

I was a teenager in the eighties, the darkest, dying decade of apartheid.

Like most who were subjected to this age of overspending and under-caring, I have many silly memories of this period which was characterised by big hair and leg-warmers, frilly shirts, frillier music and egotistical economics.

There were the countless times we bunked school to watch Pop-Shop music videos taped on our Betamax casettes. The unnatural but aching longing to look like Madonna. Not being allowed to leave the house looking like Madonna. Packing secret accessories in my bag. Looking silly, all night long.

I remember understanding the state of the nation for the first time in Standard 9 Geography. What a shock it was to discover that there were more black people living in South Africa than white people. Where were they all hiding? I knew only the domestic worker who worked in our home and the casually employed, nameless gardeners who popped in and out during the course of the year. Apparently, there were millions of black people living a few kilometers away that I had never met - kids my age, going to schools I had never driven past, living in neighbourhoods I had only heard of in the whispered mutterings of the adults and the occasional radio broadcast.

In the eighties my mom owned an exclusive boutique, full of taffeta and puffy sleeves, padded shoulders and glorious sequins. Valentino, Balenciaga, Versace, Fendi ... these were names I grew up with. I wore their designs at a time when brands were little appreciated in South Africa and I really just wanted to look more mainstream. My Matric Dance outfit was real silk of Italian design but I was not the belle of the ball. My friend in black satin, with a big black bow on her tiny derrier stole the show.

On Saturday mornings I often worked in the shop, manning the front desk and cash box for my mother who took the chance to run some errands for the husehold. I was not alone: Maria, the trusted and much loved help, was always there, keeping the stock freshly pressed and the accessories neatly displayed. She had become my mother's confidant and constant companion during the long slow days when customers were scarse and the few that came in out of curiosity were appalled by the import prices. My mom had promoted Maria from back-room tea-girl to front-of-house assistant out of appreciation for her ability to not only translate indifference into sales, but also because Maria made the silence more bearable with her friendly disposition and pleasant chatter.

On one particular Saturday, I realised just how different my world really was to Maria's. I was at the front desk, doing some reading and Maria was leaning on the central display case, willing customers into the shop. Suddenly, two policeman stomped in, shouting orders at Maria in Afrikaans and ignoring me completely. I was gob-smacked and completely paralysed with fear. Maria cried out and ran to the back of the shop. The policemen ran after her. I heard scuffling, swearing, a few thuds and then silence. The policemen walked slowly out of the shop without acknowledging me at all.

Quiet. A minute later Maria emerged, her face a little swollen and her eyes puffy and red.

"What did they want?" I was shaking.

"They just wanted to see my pass, madam."

Nothing more was said. I was almost eighteen but I had never had to speak to an angry policeman or seen anyone victimised by one. I felt weird, like I was on the wrong side of a game I did not know the rules of. Maria wiped her eyes over and over and eventually, mercifully, our day came to an end and we closed shop. She went her way and I went mine. Just as it should be.

There would be many more incidents and a deeper understanding with time. My naiveté became anger and my anger fuelled a resolve to make things better.

Today the eighteen year-olds are called Born Frees. The year they were born, apartheid died (apparently).

In my experience, most of them are pretty indifferent about politics. Most are bored by stories of the "bad old days". I find this distressing.

So when they want to say something relevant to life as it is lived today in South Africa, I am listening! There is nothing more important than developing your own voice as a young person. To be able to articulate your opinion in a compelling manner is an art and a skill that we must encourage young people to master, especially if they disagree with the mainstream.

If ever there was a time for social revolution it is right now, right here. I want to know eighteen year-olds are not paralysed by fear, or apathy, when they understand they are living in a divided and unjust society. I want to hear how they think, what they see and what they feel.

Perhaps, then, their voices will spark the change that will help us to transcend our past and move forward to create a preferable future for all.

In 1987, in the midst of all the plastic, a couple of young South Africans recorded a demo record, the flip side of which contained a song called Weeping. For two weeks the state-owned Radio Five played the song without interference from the notorious official censors inspite of the fact that the song contained a brief instrumental echo of "Nkosi Sikelel' iAfrika", at that time the anthem of the African National Congress, and, therefore, banned under Apartheid law.

Today the words have even more relevance than they had then. Read them and weep.

WEEPING

Written by Dan Heymann
(Copyright Bright Blue)
______________________________
I knew a man who lived in fear
It was huge, it was angry, it was drawing near
Behind his house, a secret place
Was the shadow of the demon he could never face
He built a wall of steel and flame
And men with guns, to keep it tame
Then standing back, he made it plain
That the nightmare would never ever rise again
But the fear and the fire and the guns remain

It doesn’t matter now
It’s over anyhow
He tells the world that it’s sleeping
But as the night came round
I heard its lonely sound
It wasn’t roaring, it was weeping
And then one day the neighbors came
They were curious to know about the smoke and flame
They stood around outside the wall
But of course there was nothing to be heard at all
"My friends," he said, "We’ve reached our goal
The threat is under firm control
As long as peace and order reign
I’ll be damned if I can see a reason to explain
Why the fear and the fire and the guns remain" It doesn’t matter now
It’s over anyhow
He tells the world that it’s sleeping
But as the night came round
I heard its lonely sound
It wasn’t roaring, it was weeping