Living In Mexico Changed My View Of My Kinky ‘Kitchen’

Up until this point, there was nothing unusual about my day. I’d done my rounds and was at the nurses’ station writing patient notes when I casually glanced up to notice a group of nurses huddled together whispering while staring pointedly at me.

The med-student paranoia peeked out from behind the curtains of my subconscious & I did a quick mental run-through of all the procedures I had done earlier. I hadn’t been screamed at or received a disapproving glare from a superior even once, and a glance at my idle phone screen revealed a crumb-free face. What in the world were they looking at?

One of the young nurses spoke up before I had a chance to ask. “Doctora”, she began, addressing me by the Spanish title I hope to attain at the end of all these years of toil and pauperization, “Why do you always cover your hair?” My hair? Another glance at my trusty Samsung reminded me that I was wearing my pink headscarf. I had spent a lot of time getting it to sit just right on my head, and I was quite pleased with it.I pondered for a while on which story to give. Maybe I could tell her culturally, black women have been wrapping their hair for years and with the resurgence of the black pride movement, headscarves were no longer just options for in-home wear or the Erykah Badu types. Or, I could tell her the truth. Tell her that underneath the well-wrapped scarf, was hair that needed tender loving care. Care that I had neither the time, nor motivation to give. My mouth decided to lie instead.

“Oh, just for style,” I heard myself say. I added a smile and silently hope that would satisfy her enough to end the conversation. I was wrong. The boldest one made her way from behind the desk. As she came close, she asked, “Doctora, is your hair long?”

Here we go, I thought. I kept the smile on my face as I answered, “Well, it depends on what you call long.” I was determined to end the conversation there, so I turned away and resumed my notetaking. I thought I’d succeeded when the few second of silence was broken by a sharp squeal- “Mira! Ayy!” (Jamaican translation- ‘watch ya’), I just love these little curls!”

What curls?  I was confused. My hair was hidden beneath the pink scarf. What was she talking about? I was yet to realize that as I hurriedly got dressed and made my way to the hospital that morning, I would invoke the shame of thousands of black mothers everywhere. As the nurse’s finger pointed to the back of my head, I realized, there unashamed in all their coily glory, sat the citizens that take up space at the nape of my neck. I had forgotten to brush my “kitchen”.

Hair is, and has always been, a big deal for black girls, but something happens when we leave our countries, time zones, and climates of origin to immerse ourselves in a place where the ethnic makeup is quite different from what we are used to. Suddenly, hair becomes not only a symbol of beauty and self-expression, but also one of identity.

“I’m not my hair”, that’s what India Arie said. But somehow that message rings a little less true when you’re the only person of African descent in the room. It is the way your non-black friends pick you out in the crowd, it’s a conversation starter, and the reason you pack long cultural explanations into soundbites (because surely, telling them you cut it is easier than explaining why through the wonders of good old H2O, your hair looks shorter than it did yesterday).

The annoying questions aside, there is some good to be had from living in a place where you and your hair are exciting, novel— exotic, even. Maybe, you too have found, that far away from the comments of the friends back home that won’t leave your choice of style alone, you’ve begun to experiment more in your new home.

I’ve come to realize that this new desire to allow my hair to become and do what it wants, does not only stem from an “eat, pray, love” moment being experienced in the great wonders of the foreign, but where one finally begins to find “self“.

Getting loads of compliments on your hair, despite the new growth that would herald to your melanated peers that it’s time to remove your braids, does something for the coily girl’s subconscious.

The hair that wouldn’t allow you to be great each morning as you angrily questioned why it wouldn’t fall into place like the natural hair vlogger’s on YouTube, still ended up turning heads at the office, schoolyard, or supermarket as old white men, Hispanic women and people of all races, color and creed all seem to have a natural affinity to disheveled afros and fuzzy braids.

Let me be clear, this is in no way an invitation for us to tie the beauty of our crowns to the approval of those that find the magic of our hair enticing because it’s new to them. We know, by following the rapidly changing trends, that the way we style our hair will soon no longer be something that only belong to us. Maybe you’re already seeing it on the continent on which you reside.

What I do think is important for black girls to realize, however, is that we are our own worst critics. Making a life far away from home has taught me to appreciate the beauty in my afro, braids, cornrows, and the way I style my natural hair. Other people being able to see and appreciate the beauty I sometimes don’t see in myself has changed my perspective and I no longer think twice about heading out with a head full of “chiney bumps” —

— or my edges not laid to perfection before I deem myself ready to hit the town.

After all, as far as others here are concerned, my hair is ready for the runway. I now laugh, roll my eyes, and proudly say ‘YES’ when my mother asks with a terror-filled face, “That’s how you went outside?”

I take more time to allow my hair to breathe- it doesn’t always have to be coiffed to perfection to pass the “go outside” test. It’s beautiful to others, and just as beautiful to me. Nowadays, I leave it alone and allow it to do what it does best— it answers the call of my ancestors as my DNA allows, and coils, kinks and curls in obedience. Who wouldn’t be proud of that?

Our guest contributor this week is Olivia Valentine. She is a medical student whose favorite tools of procrastination include thinking big thoughts, socializing, listening to good music and participating in lively debates.

She hopes to one day make her parents proud and can be found blogging away on Instagram @medcuteonline.

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