Hair Stories
Hair Love by Matthew A. Cherry
Hair Love, an Oscar-winning animated short film and children's book from Matthew A. Cherry, tells the heartfelt story of an African American father learning to do his daughter’s hair for the first time. Zuri's hair has a mind of its own. It kinks, coils, and curls every which way. Zuri knows it's beautiful. When Daddy steps in to style it for an extra special occasion, he has a lot to learn. But he LOVES his Zuri, and he'll do anything to make her -- and her hair -- happy. |
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from How Dare the Sun Rise: Memoirs of a War Child
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I was learning about shades of black in America, and about how your skin tone determines where you stand on the beauty scale. American's are so nutty about physical appearance and what defines beauty. Basically, the lighter skinned you are, and the smaller and straighter your nose is, the "prettier" you are.
I also began to understand why hair is such an important issue for African American women. I learned why the black girls in school didn't let their hair grow naturally, but instead always straightened or relaxed it. My black friends explained that since they were already considered second tier to white women in the looks department, it was important not to have unruly hair. Black hair, in its natural state, is "nappy" and disorderly, they told me. They said, "You can't have your natural hair out." They said black women have to keep their hair tidy and straight, like white women, if they want to be taken seriously at work and in school. Again, I said, "What? This is crazy."
I also began to understand why hair is such an important issue for African American women. I learned why the black girls in school didn't let their hair grow naturally, but instead always straightened or relaxed it. My black friends explained that since they were already considered second tier to white women in the looks department, it was important not to have unruly hair. Black hair, in its natural state, is "nappy" and disorderly, they told me. They said, "You can't have your natural hair out." They said black women have to keep their hair tidy and straight, like white women, if they want to be taken seriously at work and in school. Again, I said, "What? This is crazy."
from It's Trevor Noah: Born a Crime: Stories from a South African Childhood
by Trevor Noah
This passage is an excerpt from It's Trevor Noah by Trevor Noah.
Bongani dragged me to a second salon. I sat down in the chair, and the woman took my hair and started painting this creamy white stuff in it. She was wearing rubber gloves to keep the chemical relaxer off her own skin, which should have been my first clue that maybe this wasn't such a great idea. Once my hair was full of the relaxer, she told me, "You have to try to keep it in for as long as possible. It's going to start burning. When it starts burning, tell me and we'll rinse it out. But the longer you can handle it, the straighter your hair will become."
I wanted to do it right, so I sat in the chair and waited and waited for as long as I could. She should have told me to tell her when it started tingling, because by the time it was actually burning it had already taken off several layers of my scalp. I started to freak out. She rushed me over to the sink and started to rinse the relaxer out. What I didn't know is that the chemical doesn't really start to burn until it's being rinsed out. I felt like someone was pouring liquid fire onto my head. When she was done, I had patches of acid burns all over my scalp. |
"Hairs" from The House on Mango Street
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vignette
~ a brief description that brings strong images, memories, or feelings to mind |
"Hairs" by Sandra Cisneros
Everybody in our family has different hair. My Papa's hair is like a broom, all up in the air. And me, my hair is lazy. It never obeys barrettes or bands. Carlos' hair is thick and straight. He doesn't need to comb it. Nenny's hair is slippery--slides out of your hand. And Kiki, who is the youngest, has hair like fur. But my mother's hair, my mother's hair, like little rosettes, like little candy circles all curly and pretty because she pinned it in pincurls all day, sweet to put your nose into when she is holding you, holding you and you feel safe, is the warm smell of bread before you bake it, is the smell when she makes room for you on her side of the bed still warm with her skin, and you sleep near her, the rain outside falling and Papa snoring. The snoring, the rain, and Mama's hair that smells like bread. |
Create a 2-paragraph vignette telling your family "hairageous" or "hairror" story.
Check your style...
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More Hair Inspirations
"The Red in My World"
It's different; it's bright, I know. It's been a part of me forever, passed down from those in my family gene pool.
Growing up, I was different, one of the 2-4 percent in the world, one of just two in my school. I was the lucky one to have a subdued tone. She was the strawberry blonde with the freckles splattered on her cheeks, a Strawberry Shortcake minus the scent. Her short locks fell to her shoulders, whereas mine traveled straight down to my waist.
I was easy to describe..."You know, the girl with the really long, red hair." I was adored by adults; they would gush over my hair..."Oh, how pretty. Such a beautiful color." My peers, not so much. I was not the same as everyone else. No blonde, black, or brown tones for me. "Carrot Top," became my name from the mean boys. I knew they were just dumb. "Carrot tops were green," I'd argue those elementary years.
Upon entering junior high, I got a slightly new look. It was such a big deal when my mom took me to get six inches cut off. Yep, six whole inches and bangs too. I was ecstatic. Poor Mom was on the verge of tears. Other than a trim now and then, this was my first real haircut. In her eyes, my hair was just two lovely to snip.
High school sent me on a wild hair ride, a bit shorter than before and always permed. It was the 80s; poufy, big hair was most definitely the bomb. A dance at the Y brought me a boyfriend who lasted a few years. He just loved the color so different from the rest. My college years tamed the locks. Daily curling became a must.
Further into adulthood, I met my husband in an AOL chat room. Little did he know what he was getting into with this red-haired, pale-skinned, Pennsylvania girl. I was his first, redhead that is. He soon realized that the rumors were true when the fiery tempers were released, but he has stuck with me anyway. Bits of white (I’ll deny any shade of gray) are beginning to appear. I blame my son and my students for these unwelcomed changes in my pretty strands. To color or not, that’s the dyeing question. As I reflect on my future with my red, red hair, I’ve been inspired by the poetry of Robert Burns.
It's different; it's bright, I know. It's been a part of me forever, passed down from those in my family gene pool.
Growing up, I was different, one of the 2-4 percent in the world, one of just two in my school. I was the lucky one to have a subdued tone. She was the strawberry blonde with the freckles splattered on her cheeks, a Strawberry Shortcake minus the scent. Her short locks fell to her shoulders, whereas mine traveled straight down to my waist.
I was easy to describe..."You know, the girl with the really long, red hair." I was adored by adults; they would gush over my hair..."Oh, how pretty. Such a beautiful color." My peers, not so much. I was not the same as everyone else. No blonde, black, or brown tones for me. "Carrot Top," became my name from the mean boys. I knew they were just dumb. "Carrot tops were green," I'd argue those elementary years.
Upon entering junior high, I got a slightly new look. It was such a big deal when my mom took me to get six inches cut off. Yep, six whole inches and bangs too. I was ecstatic. Poor Mom was on the verge of tears. Other than a trim now and then, this was my first real haircut. In her eyes, my hair was just two lovely to snip.
High school sent me on a wild hair ride, a bit shorter than before and always permed. It was the 80s; poufy, big hair was most definitely the bomb. A dance at the Y brought me a boyfriend who lasted a few years. He just loved the color so different from the rest. My college years tamed the locks. Daily curling became a must.
Further into adulthood, I met my husband in an AOL chat room. Little did he know what he was getting into with this red-haired, pale-skinned, Pennsylvania girl. I was his first, redhead that is. He soon realized that the rumors were true when the fiery tempers were released, but he has stuck with me anyway. Bits of white (I’ll deny any shade of gray) are beginning to appear. I blame my son and my students for these unwelcomed changes in my pretty strands. To color or not, that’s the dyeing question. As I reflect on my future with my red, red hair, I’ve been inspired by the poetry of Robert Burns.
"A Red, Red Rose"
By Robert Burns O my Luve is like a red, red rose That’s newly sprung in June; O my Luve is like the melody That’s sweetly played in tune. So fair art thou, my bonnie lass, So deep in luve am I; And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a’ the seas gang dry. Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi’ the sun; I will love thee still, my dear, While the sands o’ life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve, Though it were ten thousand mile. |
My Red, Red Hair
O my hair is like the red sunset That frizzes in the heat; O my hair is like the cinnamon In apple pie so sweet. All my life I've had ginger locks, From shoulders to my waist; And I will brush thee still, my hair, Till white consumes with haste. Till white consumes with haste, my hair, And locks show all my years; And I will brush thee still, my hair, Even amidst my tears. So long, farewell, my precious waves! So long, farewell, ado! The copper hues lost, my waves, In memory anew. |