Her name is Joyce. She works underground. And last night she helped me to escape. Me, and two other women before me.
I heard about her from another Sista, who much like me probably needed to escape too. Joyce helps black women to escape.
Joyce is a hairdresser. And when I say she works underground, I mean that she works from the basement in her home, up to 18 hours a day, helping her clients escape from their hair captivity.
Most women, at least on some level, are slaves to their hair. Take a walk through the pharmacies or department stores and you see aisle after aisle of hair care products and appliances. We women have to get up early and work hard to get our hair to "work" for us. And black women are bound even deeper into this slavery. It's not a race thing nor is it a culture thing, it's a texture thing. Simply stated, our hair is just that little bit more unmanageable than the hair of people from other races. Period.
Most women, at least on some level, are slaves to their hair. Take a walk through the pharmacies or department stores and you see aisle after aisle of hair care products and appliances. We women have to get up early and work hard to get our hair to "work" for us. And black women are bound even deeper into this slavery. It's not a race thing nor is it a culture thing, it's a texture thing. Simply stated, our hair is just that little bit more unmanageable than the hair of people from other races. Period.
So it was while I was trying to break free from my current hair drama that I went to see Joyce.
Joyce is originally from Ghana, West Africa. She has been doing hair most of her life and it's a skill that she is now passing down to her daughter Lydia and niece Barbara. And while I may have been held in totally captivity by my inability to take care of my hair, she wasn't the least bit intimidated by it. Quite the contrary. Her confidence put me at ease.
Joyce is originally from Ghana, West Africa. She has been doing hair most of her life and it's a skill that she is now passing down to her daughter Lydia and niece Barbara. And while I may have been held in totally captivity by my inability to take care of my hair, she wasn't the least bit intimidated by it. Quite the contrary. Her confidence put me at ease.
Lydia and Barbara immediately began to undo the cornrows that had been the foundations of my weave and then Joyce got to work.
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| Joyce beginning my transformation. |
If I had been a slave to my hair, then Joyce was most certainly the slave master. My hair submitted willingly in her hands. For the next few hours, there I sat while Joyce tugged, teased, tightened and tamed my tired nappy tresses, using nothing but a comb and her fingers.
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Hand to head, head to heart, heart to soul. And slowly I began the journey of from hair captivity to hair freedom.
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| Finished. |
I left Joyce's home just after 11pm arriving home shortly before midnight. It was too late to go anywhere or show anyone my braids, but I wanted to tell everyone all about my hair. About Joyce.
But Joyce doesn't need me to say anything. She has no website or business card. No, her work is displayed on the heads of her clients, where, just like yesterday in the frozen food section of my grocery store, a black Sista tapped me on the shoulder and said "Girl who does your braids?" And I replied "Her name is Joyce..."
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| Braids!!! |
Whatever hair freedom looks like for you, have a Happy Nappy Hair Day.
And if you like to read about hair drama, then you could read this post
or this post or this post.
Beautiful hair!
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