Sunday Sundries - Off Limits: Don't Touch My Hair

Image: Solange Knowles found on Google

Don’t touch my hair. The phrase sounds harsh without Solange Knowles’s melodic vocals crooning out the warning that many Black women have uttered at least once in their life. If you’re a black woman with natural hair, then you’re no stranger to curious digits eager to touch your springy curls, glorious fros, braids, and locs. And if you’re anything like me, having strangers invade your personal space is more than just an annoyance; it’s a violation of personal boundaries. Yet, when it comes to Black women and their hair, all existing social norms fly out of the window. I can recall the first time I had a White woman touch my hair without my permission. The surprise I felt was palatable, as I stood in rigid shock as she investigated the fresh Senegalese twists I wore with her eager hands. I thought I had prepared myself for that day. I had heard so many stories from other Black women who had their hair touched or pulled by curious White hands. I had even witnessed a White man yank my sister’s fro one evening while we were in downtown Orlando. Instead of apologizing when she angrily told him to get his hands out of her hair, he sheepishly replied that he thought she was wearing a wig — as if that was a better excuse for his behavior.

So, I had rehearsed that scenario in my head, practiced my iciest of glares and scratching rebukes for the moment when someone decided it was okay to touch me without my consent. But when the moment came, I just stood there and let her run her hands down my twists and poke her fingers in my scalp. The rebuked died on my lips, and my icy glare turned into a look of momentary surprise before I patiently answered her questions about my hair. How did I let that happen? Remember, I was ready.

The interaction didn’t last for very long, and her questions were genuine and friendly. I didn’t dress the woman down like I wanted to because she was a friend of my father’s, the wife of my father’s pastor. I didn’t know her, but I was familiar enough with her to know that she was harmless. So, I compromised my autonomy to avoid a scene because she was harmless. After I had answered her questions, the woman thanked me for educating her and marveled at how soft my hair felt. I guess she was expecting a head full of Brillo instead of the braiding hair I had used for extra length. I walked away from that encounter disappointed in myself. After all that big talk about what I would do if a White person touched my hair without my permission, I just stood there and let it happen. She wasn’t aware, but it was very intrusive and embarrassing for me. She acted like my hair was some kind of oddity, and I felt like I got put on the spot. Never mind my personal space. That didn’t matter. She was curious about my hair and decided to break the rules of social interactions to satisfy her curiosity as if that was more important than my personal space.

Some people may wonder, “what’s the big deal?” Or say, “it’s just hair.” Think about it this way, how would you feel if someone touched you because they were curious about how you felt? And as they touched you, they also would expect you to treat them with the same decorum they failed to extend to you. If I had told her not to touch my hair, I would have come off as rude — not the person who was running her fingers through my scalp. If I had responded normally, I would have come off as angry. We all know how that angry Black woman trope goes. That’s part of the reason why I had to restrain myself that day. I didn’t want to come off as angry, even though I was annoyed. I had to hold myself to a different standard to avoid offending the White woman who was violating my space.

I’m sure that I’m not the only Black woman who felt that way. Often we allow these interactions to go unchecked to avoid falling into certain stereotypes. We allow these small humiliations, and all the while these White women are oblivious to our feelings — or they pretend to be oblivious. I don’t know what it is about our hair that is so curious, but I have yet to witness a White person going up to another random White person to fondle their hair. There is something intrinsically privileged about approaching an unfamiliar Black person to touch their hair just because you can.

I have seen all kinds of curl patterns, jew fros, bone straight tresses, and I have never had the desire to approach a stranger to touch their hair. Sanitary reasons notwithstanding, it’s just completely rude. However, for Black people, it goes a step further. In the 19th and early 20th centuries, Black people were featured in human zoos. They were put on display for public consumption and treated like animals. Curious White people would pay money to poke and prod at Black people in cages for their entertainment. One of the most well known human displays featured an African woman by the name of Saartjie Baartman — a Black woman known for her perceived large rear end. Like our hair, Baartman’s body was seen as strange or odd. She was not viewed as a human but as an inconsequence to their curiosity. While Baartman’s experience was extreme, the sentiments are still the same. Our hair and our bodies are not here for your consumption. We shouldn’t have to educate you about our hair. And we certainly do not have to put up with someone violating our personal spaces.

Well, then “how do we learn?” There are so many avenues that you can explore to satisfy your curiosity. If your goal is truly to educate yourself about our hair type, you can watch YouTube videos. There is a vast selection of videos that explore Black hair care, styling, and history. You can also visit your local beauty supply store. Many of these establishments sell human hair wigs that are on display for you to touch. Or if you know a Black woman with natural hair who doesn’t mind you touching it, she may be open to answering your questions — after you ask to touch her first! What you should never do is go up to a stranger and start touching them without their consent.

After my experience with the pastor’s wife, I decided that if it happened again, (and it did) I would be more assertive about protecting my personal space. These days, I don’t hesitate to say with unabashed firmness, “don’t touch my hair.”

So, the next time you feel the urge to touch a Black woman’s hair without her permission: don’t.

Authors Note: I initially published this article on Medium.com in 2020.