It’s almost always time to return to the salon sooner rather than later. The process has its own kind of pace. Weeks come and go, and when the moon has waxed and waned at least twice, and the top of my head is newly visible and itchy, I know the time has come. I believe this is a kind of awakening.
In the quarter of a century I’ve lived, I’ve been through cities and decades, too many African braiding salons to name. If I were to expand the definition of “salon” beyond more professional beauty establishments, I could also include the many living rooms my mother took me to as a child, where a stylist would plonk in front of her TV and get serious about figuring things out. More often than not, one or three children – my age or younger – would run around their feet, causing only minimal disturbance.
Although I don’t remember ever shedding a tear or having much of a fight in the chair, my cords often called me “tender-headed.” This term was often used in American Black American and African cultures, and has been used a lot in modern times to label young black children as “tender-headed” or too sensitive to real pain and discomfort.
However, I am less interested in litigation over the pain of stringing than my nature pain himself, and what it means to face pain with a persistent gaze. I have been involved in some form of formal meditation practice for years, and was introduced to Buddhist teachings through the intimacy of vipassana meditation and zazen. My spiritual traditions are ultimately syncretic in nature and thus far have included the evangelical teachings of my youth, an interest in the indigenous practices of my Yoruba tribe, and an abiding affinity for Zen Buddhism and insight meditation. Through all these different traditions, one must be willing to see things as they really are, which in our contemporary secular culture often involves the openness and ingenuity to see things as they are. could be.
Often the complete removal of hair appears in spiritual practice, often so-called crown of hair. In many Buddhist traditions, tonsure goes hand in hand with the idea of renunciation, of releasing the traps of desire that ultimately lead to dissatisfaction. The first and last time I shaved my head was as a sophomore in college, and I did so in large part to prove to my Nigerian parents that I could exercise bodily autonomy, express my individuality, and participate in the genderqueer disrespect that had for so long seemed the exclusive preserve of my white American peers. I hated this look to the core: The most important moment was seeing a dark sprinkler hill on the floor of my friend’s apartment and understanding that it was something you could just do it; every argument to the contrary was another illusion.
Now, a little older and supposedly wiser, I’m still interested in the meaning embedded in our various hair rituals, both religious and secular. It’s hard to meet a black woman or woman who doesn’t have a complicated relationship with her natural hair. Many people go through the “big chop”, as it is colloquially referred to, to start something new. The commitment to the care and maintenance of curls in a culture whose dominant message reinforces the idea of ”good” hair (essentially hair that is as close as possible to whiteness) is not only a radical assertion of the right to self-expression, but an exercise rooted in the pursuit of self-esteem and self-understanding. Having grown my hair out in the intervening years and done it several times, every time I walk into a salon and surrender myself to the stationed spinner, I find myself in the realm of surrender. as I might when doing walking meditation, settling down on a floor cushion for mindful breathing, or actively practicing loving-kindness.
Every time I walk into a salon and submit myself to the stationed hairstylist, I find myself in the same realm of submission. as I might when doing walking meditation, settling down on a floor cushion for mindful breathing, or actively practicing loving-kindness.
Yoruba religious tradition often refers to the ori which one may regard as a spirit or the seat of the soul, which resides at the top of one’s head. Most of the devotees’ time is devoted to maintaining the cool and clean Ori, which, as a bridge between our mortal body and our divine nature, is essential to keeping us in good shape. In addition to the more metaphysical ways of prayer and meditation, ori is often remedied by physical means, such as wearing a cold towel to the forehead in the morning. Caring for my hair is a natural extension of this work, in recognition that energy often flows from top to bottom; if you can get your head in order, by any means, your body can follow the process of awakening.
As the stylist shampoos, cleanses, deep conditions, dries, moisturizes, and begins to detangle my scalp, it’s not hard to imagine the accumulated worries and irritations of the past eight weeks washed down the drain alongside the more obvious dirt and oils. Especially if I’ve had braids before, the process of taking them out to start the process over again is a necessary drain of energy comparable to how it felt to shave my head years ago. Now, as the stylist starts sectioning my hair, adding more strands, and braiding each section up or down to the roots, they encourage me to consider what to buy. in through the intricate weaving process. I think about Buddhist mudras, handprints, and what the braid can convey to me, consciously or otherwise, through its own intentional gestures. The power of our hands, especially when we lay one hand on top of the other, is evident in many spiritual modalities. Braiders are alchemists in their own right, combining their life energy with yours in a complex and difficult process, resulting in a stunning protective talisman.
Hair braiding is first and foremost an exercise in endurance, with more styles than you don’t need to dedicate a whole day, eight or more hours to the process. When I sit in the chair, as with more formal meditation practices, any experience of boredom or discomfort is irrelevant when it comes to the task at hand. So it is almost impossible as a young Buddhist not to think about leaning even closer to unpleasant feelings. If the idea of renunciation is rooted in the need to let go of unnecessary barriers between ourselves and reality, I could argue that reclaiming the moniker “tender-headed” is its own semi-regular ritual—a painful rendezvous. After all, just because it hurts—and it looks like it will continue to hurt, every day I choose to weave—doesn’t mean it’s not worth it. Suffering is your choice; to accept the agony (because it can be agonizing) is another, and it creates a deeper presence, even joy, in enduring the pain. When I admire myself in the mirror afterwards, I want to reflect on the idea of a lotus emerging from the mud (or perhaps a rose growing out of concrete) and make me think that beauty is not created despite the suffering inherent in life, but rather as an intertwining of two threads, pulled tight.
Another aspect of the spinning ritual lies in the place itself. Mainly from my experience of growing up in predominantly white neighborhoods and going to schools where I could count on being one of two black kids in a given classroom, being in spinning salons is the only time I’m surrounded by other black women, let alone multiple generations of them. Also, anyone in black immigrant communities can tell you that braid salons are one of the few entrepreneurial fields that are clearly welcome and accessible to African women in the United States. I think fondly of the industry, camaraderie and creativity that these spaces represent. It’s not uncommon to have two women working on my hair at the same time to speed up the process, all the while chatting in French or a native dialect.
Looking back, I feel safe in these spaces that are hard to experience or recreate after leaving the chair. Most of the cords I go to would not have received formal training in school or academia; most often they were taught to do hair by their mothers, sisters and aunts – a lineage rooted in family and direct transmission. In this way, working in African braiding salons is inseparable from a community of people who understand you (even if they secretly think you’re a little baby to cringe at), are interested in your personal development, and want the best for you and each other. I may be useless when it comes to braiding my own hair, but by shining a light on their work and acknowledging the value of their work, I hope to repay the honor in turn.
What distinguishes ritual from repetition is little more than attention or devotion. When we are willing to look deeper into the mundane activities of everyday life, the spiritual nature underlying everything is revealed. Zen Buddhism offers the idea that enlightenment can and should be grasped in every moment, wherever we encounter reality. In this way, at some point, like everything else in this life, the purpose of doing my hair is simply to do it. I practice gratitude for the “shearing” weight of opportunity.
