I am not my hair

By Phumzile Twala

I hate being called names.

I grew up in Soweto, where people come up with interesting and new terms just about as often as taxi drivers cut off other motorists on the road every day. I’ve been called all sorts of names over the years. But none have baffled me as much as the terms related to hairstyles.

I’ve been growing my hair since the end of 2006. It now reaches all the way down my back.

So this supposedly means people can call me “Jah-Lady”. And God (or Jah) forbid I happen to walk past a local car wash in my neighbourhood run by Rastafarian gents. I’m greeted with various perpetual gestures such as fist bumps and air fists which I’m “expected” to acknowledge as a “Jah-Lady”. This of course comes along with a line of questioning related to when I’m going to attend a church service in praise of “Jah”.

I find this fascinating.

It fascinates me so much, that I’ve consciously walked through certain areas of Soweto, the Joburg CBD and Pretoria, comparing what reactions men have when different women walk past them. And more often than not, the Nigerian dudes standing on the sidewalks in Jozi will shout at me over the blaring sounds of generators “Hello Jah-Lady!” The Zulu guy I encounter crossing a busy road near the Noord taxi rank will stare at me and utter one word, “Rasta” and look at me to acknowledge in response. From my experiences, my fellow African sisters with weaves, natural hair or no hair at all walking down the same street as I do receive no such treatment.

Lately, the most common question I get asked is “Are they extensions?” When this happened to me for the first time a few years ago, I was shocked. (Don’t judge me. I hadn’t yet discovered the latest trend.)

Then I’ll occasionally get asked if I haven’t been chased down the street for my hair. Why? Because apparently long, luscious dreadlocks have become the latest precious commodity on the black market. I’ve been told mine can fetch a tidy sum of roughly R4 000 now. (Chuckles.)

Walking to varsity over the Nelson Mandela Bridge was never without incident either. Being accosted by the hairdressers from the salons specialising in treating and styling dreadlocks was always an adventure. Here’s a typical scenario:

Guy: “Hi sister, can I please ask where you do your hair?”

Me: “Hi, I do it myself. I don’t go to salons anymore.”

Guy: “I’d just like to invite you to our salon here sister. We have specials: Treatment and styling for just 120.”

This would be boring, except this scenario would happen every week, despite my efforts to visibly avoid the conversations by walking on the opposite side of the road. Without fail, “Guy” or his colleague the next week would run across to the other side of the road, to propound his services to me.

Shopping for my favourite accessories in town is quite an experience too. Sifting for my eclectic taste in earrings, I’ve often been motioned towards the green, red and yellow-coloured items by sales reps. The Somalian shop assistants offering, “Only R20 sisi, to go nice with your Rasta hair.”

Partying has been a whole other experience too. I have a deep love and passion for hip hop, so I’ve had my fair share of circling underground joints (pun unintended) attending late-night sessions and gigs. Owing to my hairstyle, I assume, to some people means that there’s a high (I’m not doing this on purpose I swear) likelihood that I smoke weed. So occasionally my endeavours to have a good time have included having smoke deliberately blown in my face or spliffs thrust into my face with expressions such as “I’m sure you like this” following not far behind.

So, lately I’ve found myself evaluating the power in those India Arie lyrics, “I am not my hair”.

Social encounters have become awkward. Having conversations with some ladies, and the topic turns to the best kinds of weaves to have and which area in Hillbrow you can find them leaves me drowning in a sea of boredom more often than not. Bargaining good reasons for why the cutting of my hair wouldn’t be the end of the world to my boyfriend is always entertaining.

Recalling my mother’s words when I cut my relaxed hair and informed her I’d be growing dreadlocks, she made it clear that she associated them with traditional healing and “ubungoma”. I laugh today when she compliments me on how beautiful my hair is. Moral of the story: When you have dreadlocks in South Africa, society claims that actually “you are your hair”.

I won’t get into the histrionics of locks and race but there is a long history of misconceptions. Today the hairstyle extends beyond the limits of the Rastafari religion, Masai culture or Yoruba priests of Nigeria. For many people like me, it really is just a choice of hairstyle.

There has been an increase in the number of debates and dialogues about the benefits of natural hair and adverse effects of chemically processed hair. Personally, I think there is some truth to this, so I don’t think I’ll be going down that road again.

A friend of mine gave me a nickname that I absolutely adore: Miss Freakum Dreads. The irony. I think I’m going to keep it. With or without my hair!

Twitter: @PHUMIT

Phumzile Twala is the founding editor of Barcoded, a writer, and Wits journalism honours student.