The Ugly Black Girl
With the brush in one hand and the flatiron in the other, I couldn’t help but notice the damage I had caused to my hair. It was almost as if I were punishing my natural curls with heat, not realizing I was disappointing my ancestors by ignoring my roots. Growing up, I was never “big” on hair. I’d walk out the door with my hair looking a complete mess and not care; however, my mother was.
Every morning before school, she’d brush my hair and part it into a few sections and put it in ponytails. She’d then add a few barrettes and finish off with: “Now, you look like my child. Can’t allow you to go anywhere looking like you aren’t taken care of.” At that moment, I knew hair meant something, but I shortly found out it meant everything to my mom. I believe it’s just in our nature, but in the Black community, hours upon hours are spent trying to perfect such a look to amaze others and I’ve fallen victim to it as well.
Everyday at work involved something new. Being the only Black girl in a corporate office filled with white men and women, I always stood out. “Oh wow, your hair is so long,” they’d say. “It’s like you grew it overnight.” No one knew I wore weaves because then I’d have to explain what that meant and quite frankly I just wanted to be left alone. For once.
I believe they view me as a creature — as a fictional character who has no identity. They think of me as being too loud but really it’s my words they are afraid of. My voice they feel betrayed by. My mind they feel lost behind. It’s my existence that makes them cringe and I say this not because I did something or said anything wrong, but because they wonder what I will do next. There’s something about not knowing one’s next move that sparks a sense of curiosity. It captures a stiff sensation of silence that only they can endure. It’s quite fascinating. Sometimes I laugh because I wonder if they believe I’m powerful enough to change their views of me. I’d like to believe I am, but honestly who ever believes me, other than me?
They look at my face and only see the color of my skin. That’s how they keep us separate. They categorize me as “the Black girl” when clearly I’m just a darker shade of brown. They notice blotches on my skin and think I have a disease. Or how about when my hair gets wet and poofs up? They assume I’m mixed with poodle and all of a sudden, I am out of dress code. They look at my smile and notice my teeth are spaced apart and say it’s because I chew on sticks, or maybe my teeth are straight and they assume they are false, failing to realize I have gaps because it’s hereditary or my teeth are straight because I wore braces. They notice the fullness of my lips and assume I buy botox. “What’s wrong with her?” they ask. I guess I’m not supposed to be different.
They compare me to some skinny girl with big breasts and say I should look like her. Her skin is lighter, her hair is smoother when wet, her eyes are lighter and the way she looks in the sun is just beyond amazing. They tell me I should look like her. They say she is the best fit for the world. But WHY? One minute I’m praised and another minute I’m “too much.” Where is this coming from exactly? Why does my hair have such a lucrative impact in society let alone this office?
Simple, the answer is one word: media. The media has a powerful way of killing a person’s confidence. They say I am not worthy enough to exist because I’m different. My natural “flaws” don’t represent beauty. My natural “beauty” doesn’t fit in with the likes of society. So they expect me to change. They say my hair is too short, so I have to add some to it. And typically, I do! They say my skin is too dark, I need to fix it. So I wear makeup. They say I’m not slim enough, so I eat right. They expect me to be just like them. Seems like being different is not welcomed, but here I stand!
With the brush in one hand and the flatiron in the other, I couldn’t help but notice the damage I had caused to my hair. When I look in the mirror, I don’t just see the color of my skin. Or the frizzy hair on top of my head. But in fact I see beauty. I see sweetness. There’s nothing like a beautiful black berry. The darker the berry the sweeter it tastes.
I look beyond what I consider to be flaws and embrace them as beauty. When I look in the mirror, I see beauty hidden behind a shell enclosed between pain and happiness. I see hope. I see confidence. I see everything they tried to take from me. I thought I saw an ugly Black girl for a while, but it took me some time to figure out that maybe it wasn’t me who was ugly, but in fact it was them. Them meaning society. The place that has corrupted the minds of young girls portraying this image of what “beauty” is supposed to look like. The place that separated women and created a great deal of jealousy. I can go on and on, but I would rather not.
All I will say is that I will no longer deal with the foolish entities that society has tried to place upon me. I’m far too beautiful for that and for that reason alone I will no longer accept the ugly Black girl and in that moment I put my flatiron down and walk into the office with a smile on my face.
