Chanelle
royal
“Society is literally tinted white.”
Chanelle grew up in Tacoma, Washington—a city about 40 miles south of Seattle. While Tacoma is known for having a more diverse population than Seattle (Blacks and other minorities are continually driven further and further south of Seattle due to gentrification (Alisdari, 2011)), it’s by no means a Black cultural epicenter. Throughout childhood she felt the necessity to conform to white-centric beauty standards and began relaxing her hair in elementary school. Now a recent college graduate, Chanelle and her boyfriend moved north to Seattle last summer and since then she’s been on the lookout for jobs and opportunities to start her career. She describes society as “literally tinted white” and expresses frustration in finding opportunities in which she can show up authentically.
Chanelle started her journey to natural hair five years ago at age 21. The word “journey” is the typical vocabulary used within the natural hair movement as it references the transformation (which often occurs over an extended period of time in which one can grow out a relaxer) and the literal re-learning of hair care Black women go through when they decide to stop relaxing their hair. It is indeed a journey of both education and outward transformation (Howard, 2015).
The stigma of 4c hair.
Chanelle has what’s referred to as “4c” hair on the hair typing system. This system was originally created by former Oprah Winfrey stylist Andre Walker and, in recent years, adopted and modified by the natural hair movement (adding the “4c” distinction). The typing system ranges from 1a (straight) to 4c (coarse). Originally created to help women find products and styling methods best for their hair type, recently its use has become more a tool for division and stratification to reinforce hierarchies within the natural hair community based on hair texture (Howard, 2015). Those with 4c hair tend to have dryness and “shrinkage.” Shrinkage refers to the tendency of the hair to coil up, appearing perpetually short. Like Chanelle, I have 4c hair as well.
“4c hair has a stigma,” she tells me. “There’s memes and pictures and it will say, ‘4a and 4b’ and it will have this nice shiny glossy curls and then it will say ‘4c’ and it will be like this dry desert puff ball that hasn’t had any moisture since it was released into the atmosphere. And it’s like, why are people doing that? It’s already hard enough to be natural. It’s like light skin and dark skin but now we’re divided by the grade of our hair. And girls are either thinking that they’re more valuable or less valuable because they have a certain type of hair.”
“You’re not feminine-looking.”
I ask, why can’t some Black women find beauty in 4c hair?
“We’re ashamed of the shortness,” she tells me. “I don’t feel attractive. I just don’t think people see past it, you know.” Chanelle paused and looked at my mid-length, gold-colored braids. “As beautiful as you are, if you had your hair out, people might not think you’re as gorgeous with your hair like that.” I nodded, internally wincing.
Chanelle continued, “I feel like if we wanted to wear our hair natural (without braids, extensions, or texture manipulation), since we have 4c… we’d have to be like all the way dressed. Versus if our hair is done, maybe we can wear some sweats and leggings, but if we wear the ‘man hair’ and dress down, you know, no one’s gonna say hello to us, no one’s gonna hold the door. ‘Cuz you’re not a woman. You’re not feminine-looking. People might think that you go both ways.”
“Protective” style.
For some women, styling your hair is about balancing femininity, beauty and authenticity. For Black women (with 4c hair in particular) this is an especially difficult balance as the “authentic” version of ourselves has traditionally been labeled as neither feminine nor beautiful (Harrell, 2015).
As such, Chanelle’s life is a series of negotiations of her identity depending on the space she enters. Though she’s started the journey, she hasn’t figured out a way to resist the demands of the gaze within a white-centered society. She always manipulates her texture with heat or twist-outs or wears protective styles, like braids or twists. It’s interesting because the term “protective style” stems from the intention to protect the hair from damage by providing a rest from the constant heat styling and detangling techniques. However, in this context I can’t help but think of it as a protective shield from scrutiny in a society that doesn’t know what to make of 4c hair.
“You do have to draw that line of basically okay, I can stand tall but, how far am I going to get?” I went back and forth, like do I want to go to this [job] interview natural or do I want to put my hair back to look ‘neat.’ And I just forced myself and said, ‘I’m gonna go natural.’ And believe it or not, they commented on my hair. She was like, ‘Can I ask you, um… well, you know, the braces and the wild hair… it really gives you, like, a youthful look…’ and I think that even played into their decision of thinking that I’m not mature enough for the position.”
As Black women, we are forced to play a guessing game all the time. What was it about me that made you say that? Why did you assume that about me? Would you have said that to someone else? How offended should I be? It can be exhausting, confusing and make you question every interaction. It is easy to dismiss this as neuroticism but for Black women, these interactions have consequences—be they professional, personal or mental.
This research was conducted as part of University of Münster's Visual Anthropology, Media and Documentary Practices Master of Arts program. The following paper has been edited for brevity and readability and published in multiple sections. The full paper may be requested at angelamoorer.com/contact.