Hair is an important part of a Black woman’s identity, but it is not the only thing that defines her. We grow up with ideas of what is “good hair” and “bad hair.” We grew up on the floor between our mother’s legs as she brushes, braids, twists and combs our hair with her oily fingers, holds your hair tight and taut as she styles your hair.

“Good hair” is straight, long and “easy to care for.” A Black woman can achieve this style, reach this goal, with perms and relaxers to chemically straighten it, hot combs, flat irons, wigs and more.

I don’t want to confuse a Black woman’s choice to wear these styles as an inherently bad thing. I would just like to highlight the way these styles have signified and reinforced Eurocentric beauty standards and a pursuit to assimilate within a society who abhors Blackness.

“Bad hair” is nappy, coarse, short and “hard to maintain.” These are styles and states of natural hair that are seen as unfavorable to some. Per this definition, bald is an example of “bad hair.” The newest generations have changed these ideals into something more accepting and inclusive, allowing everyone the autonomy to wear their hair however they please.

But it is not that easy to change this perception of “bad hair” and natural hair not only because it has been taught so long, but has been proven necessary for protection against our white or non-Black counterparts.

There are many phrases and words we use to describe unique styles and textures within the Black community. Some of which include:

– Two scoops of hair

– Broccoli bush

– Icy

– Crispy

– Laid

– Straight scalp

– Wavy

– Drowning

– Nappy-headed

– Loc’d

– Rosta farry

– Mop

– Harriet Tubman

– Dookie braids

– “Is that a wig?” (Because the hair looks so good and straight)

– Bundles

– Lace front

– Fried dyed and laid to the side

– Birds nest

– “New hair who dis” (Black women be changing their hair a lot)

– Snatched

– Hair did

– Edges laid

– Eyebrown on fleek

– Laid to the scalp

– Hangtime

– Bald-headed

I want to emphasize what bald means. Courtesy of Merriam Webster, bald is: “lacking a natural or usual covering (as of hair, vegetation, or nap).” Phrases and words like bald-headed and “two scoops of hair” are often used to say you have no hair at all when you do. I don’t care if you have two strands of hair on your head, you are not bald-headed.

I’ve been bald and buzzed, much to my mother’s chagrin. I was accused of wanting to be a boy or a man. She holds ideals many Black and African women hold regarding our hair. The lesson of “good hair” and “bad hair” is taught, maybe not explicitly but it is heavily implied within the community.

As established, hair has a large cultural significance. Cutting your hair as a Black woman with long hair is like saying you are cutting off your arm to others within the community. There is an idea that Black people in general can’t grow long hair, so cutting your long and beautiful hair is giving into that notion. A lot of the time, length is valued over health. Textured long hair is met with awe and when you want “waste” that length it is met with disdain. Another reason a lot of people are hesitant to do a big chop, cutting off damaged hair which could be the cause of chemically straightened hair and heat.

Returning to Eurocentric ideals, straight, long, luscious hair, especially blonde, is desirable. These Aryan traits are the standard in America. Not only are Black and people of color discriminated against for their skin color, but also because of their hair. We face this sort of scrutiny within white spaces which makes it easier and safer to adhere to their standards: forcing curls and kinks to be straight is all texturism at its finest. Many Black girls learn this lesson early, making it hard for them to wear their natural hair as is.

I know firsthand the implications of having this “bad” hairstyle.

On Jan. 2, 2022, I shaved my head for the first time.

I had already taken my box braids out days ago in anticipation of the day. In the bathroom, I turned on my specifically curated playlist titled “shaved” with a razor and Black bald woman emoji next to it. I had too much hair to just shave a strip right down the middle of my head, so the scissors were the first to make an appearance. I looked intently at myself in the mirror as I gripped the section of hair that would be the first to go.

My scalp was pulled taut as I cut, I tightened my grip and snipped harder and faster and there it was. My hair in my hand. I was faster after that, more eager than imaginable. Snip snip snip snip.

With the razor I went for the middle first. I wanted a strip running through my head, I thought that would make it real, that I was really here in my bathroom shaving my head of hair. I hadn’t wanted to go fully bald, I just wanted a buzzcut.

I raised the razor to the crown of my head and ran it through. I saw the first empty patch and my stomach dropped. I had wanted the smallest bit of hair left, but seeing the spot and the skin underneath made my stomach take a swan dive. I breathed and breathed and told myself I had to start what I finished. Clutching the sink counter and leaning closer to the mirror, I resumed shaving. It got easier. In some places my hair was still too long which meant cutting more off with the scissors beforehand.

As I watched myself, watched the clumps of hair fall and cling to my shoulders, I found myself smiling as hard as can be. Glide after glide, clump after clump, I was filled with a different sense of joy and euphoria, giddy as can be. The bathroom air was thick with the heat of the shower filled with the sounds of the razor, the water and the music in my ears; together it felt like a beautiful symphony.

I was bald, and of course everyone around me took notice. It was a vulnerable thing for my full head to be on display to think of people looking at the back of my head and seeing everything I could not; the nicks on my head, the dry patches, the scars. I felt naked and bare, but above all I felt pretty.

In the eyes of society, a woman’s hair, especially a Black woman’s hair, is deeply tied to her identity, it defines her femininity. This ties back to ideas of “good hair” and “bad hair,” these characteristics being the first thing assumed and irrevocably associated with a woman, when in fact, you are not your hair.

If you have stubble on your head, grippable, touchable hair, you are not bald-headed. Your hair is your own, and you decide what to do with it. Short or long, this does not define your femininity, though it may play a role in making you feel so, which is just as special.